Talk of Summertime
by interminablesadness
Summary: In the summertime, she is his. It is a long road to redemption for them both until everything begins to unravel, and she must make a choice - again. EC (eventually). Rated R for some violence and sexuality.
1. The Rose

**Talk of Summertime**

Rating: R

Summary: In the summer, she is his. It is a long road to redemption for both of them, until everything begins to unravel and she is forced to make a choice - again. Erik/Christine (eventually).

A/N: Takes place four years after the movie, and is true to Gerry Butler's portrayal of the Phantom. Because he's hot.

This chapter has mention of unconsentual sex and violence. And there's a lot of time flipping. And angst - lots of angst, folks.

The Rose

_Summertime and the living is easy_

_Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is fine_

_Oh, you're daddy's rich and your ma is good-lookin'_

_So hush little baby, don't you cry_

_- Summertime, Billie Holiday_

**December 1919**

The rose was mocking him.

Tied with black ribbon and adorned with an elegant diamond ring, the wave of realization that the bittersweet flower brought crashed around him with portent fury. _He had been there all along. _

Count Raoul de Chagny shook, not with the affliction of his age, but with fear. And anger. But just as quickly as it had washed over him, it was replaced by sorrow. Sorrow not for his dead wife, but for himself. _Was this last reminder a token of his unrequited love for her? Or had he been there all along, watching, calling to her, cloaking her in his dark omniscience?_

Raoul's eyes turned stony, for he knew. During their marriage, he had always bore a slight niggling at the back of his mind. It was in the soft sweep of her eyelashes as she turned her gaze away from him to somewhere he could not see. When she sang, her eyes pressed to the heavens, he had known. It was in the way she never spoke of him.

But he had dismissed it all as a foolish man's ego.

He felt insistent hands tugging on his coat and a small voice suddenly flooded his ears. It had been there all along, and as he turned to his nurse, he saw the sorrow glaze her eyes, a simple artifice of her pity. The small upturning of her mouth and words of, "There, there, Monsieur," fell flat and lifeless in his ears. He heard his body collapse into the wheelchair, heard the stubborn creak of wheels and heard the cooing of the matronly nurse. He heard the singsong of winter wind, harsh and merciless against his cheek. Snowflakes swirled hypnotically in the air, alighting on his face, his hands. He felt nothing.

A cool acceptance crept into his heart.

_Christine_.

**Many years earlier**

He lay inside, the bars encircling him like merciless steel fingers. The weight of their imprisonment crushed him with all the still-worn ease of a clenched fist. Incessant chatter drifted through the cold fingers, wrapping around his senses and lulling him into a false unconsciousness. He relished in the white noise of the crowd, knowing that the night would only bring him silence. Silence. Silence that would choke him with its unmerciless serenity. To be alone with his thoughts, oh, such torture!

The hot rash of the whip, the purpling swell of fists, the crushing steel of boots about his ribs was nothing compared to the silence.

The air was unbearably hot, striking down upon the land within unforgiving power. The air was thick, sapped in mosquitoes and dragonflies. Flowers wilted under the intense scrutiny of the sun. Even the bees, their tiny legs full of pollen, seemed to move in slow motion.

The creaky floorboards around him were littered with straw, soil and piss. In this muggy June, each disgusting piece of debris rose into a turgid, hot stink of fermented putrescence. He did not see the world outside his cage, only the cruel filth of his squalor. The heat made his skin sweaty and sticky, little pieces of straw clung to the bareness of his arms and legs. His shirt was a grimy shade of yellow, the yellowed collar a witness to the weather of the summer. His trousers were torn at the knees and tattered like strips of bacon. The callousness of his hands mocked him. They had once been perfection, bringing beauty and sound to his private world.

The gypsy who owned the traveling carnival only entered his cage to abuse him or fling buckets full of frigid water about him and his dwelling. Only then would the hot stink of excrement, sweat and despair be mildly lifted. But this only occurred when the cage became too repulsive for the crowds to stand.

"We will lose money because of your disgusting filth!" The gypsy would scream, the words rotting as they past through his crooked yellow teeth.

Of course, there was the show to put on. The gypsy would throw in a few punches and kicks before ripping the mask from his face. Little girls wept openly into their mothers skirts, clutching them with all the strength and passion he lacked. Little boys would laugh and toss rocks, taunting him with calls of "Devil!" and "Monster!" Mothers and fathers simply had one of two reactions: to draw back in fear or to whisper amongst them, pointing at his loathsome carcass.

The humiliation of the situation did little to affect him. The chains which bound his wrists trapped him to this manmade hell and the futility of escape overwhelmed him. He knew he deserved no better and this apathy swept upon him like the gentle lapping of ocean upon surf.

He did not desire to kill him, although his hands were already red with taken life.

The crowd drifted away and the gypsy collected his coins with all the greed of Judas Iscariot. There would be no repentance, however. No guilt, he was sure.

The low buzz of activity sang quietly in his ears and he closed his eyes. He did not sigh. He did not feel sorry for himself for no one had loved him. Especially not her. He would never - and could never - earn the love of the one whom he loved most and was supposed to love him. She had seen his face and the horror of it had flooded her eyes with tears. He had been told that his face, this aberration of disfigurement, was a sign of the devil.

When she had given him his mask, he had understood that no one could love him. Not even his music, which he played for her, could sooth the angry fever of his face. She had simply abandoned him and he had been captured and brought here.

Walking the streets alone, not caring who saw his face, he had faced the world unsheathed and bare as the ruined soul she had left him with. He had left his mask behind because it was not important to him how others reacted. Only her reaction filled his soul with the resemblance of his face.

Tears had warmed his cheeks where the sun couldn't. He had squatted at various squalid homes, slept in fields, wandering as aimless as the ghost he knew he was. While sleeping in a smarmy hotel room miles from Paris, they had taken him. Rumors of his face had spread throughout the town and the innkeeper had been made an honest man with only a few greasy coins. He had fought them as the shouts rose up around him and the lassoes ensnared him. He had been struck hard upon his head and dove into blackness. When he awoke he had been chained to this cage.

The pride which had once burned resolutely in his eyes had left a vacancy for interminable sadness.

Caged and imprisoned, he felt nothing for his fate. He almost welcomed the crass distraction that the gypsies brought. He would welcome it had he the heart to embrace anything. In the tents surrounding his cage, he dimly took in the cries of their passion as they made love. He was sure he would never know what that was. He knew it wasn't love when the gypsy unbuckled his pants and forced himself inside of him. That was the only time he ever felt anything. He had struggled, cried out with such feeling of rage and hate that he did not know he was capable of experiencing anymore. He seethed and gnashed his teeth and tears burned tracks into his cheeks as he suffered, truly suffered. The chains cut into his wrists and he bled tiny rivulets which did not compare to the bleeding in his heart. He could not scream out as he was gagged and his head was forced into the foul floorboards.

When the gypsy had spent himself and left nothing but blood and semen in his wake, he had curled around himself, the shame and humiliation and anger burning wickedly within him. But then he remembered the pain of her refusal and knew that nothing could take the place of the pain she had given him in his black heart. _Again_, he knew. _I deserve this._

Erik whispered her name, a barely heard utterance that drifted soundlessly into the wind. With it, her name carried all that he had left behind and all the hurt that she had given him.

A cool acceptance crept into his heart.

_Christine_.


	2. The Girl

The Girl

A/N: I have taken some artistic license with the Grand Theatre for the sake of the story. It was originally built in the 18th century, but that doesn't work for our dear characters, now does it?

The din of the crowd had gradually disappeared, only the buzz of insects making shrewd music in the air. The sky was a deep orange with traces of mauve along its edges. It reminded him of her, the nights on the roof, but then again, everything did.

"Christine," he breathed, despair lacing every syllable. He said her name nightly in the hopes that one day it would be spill meaningless from his mouth. That one day, "Christine" would roll off his tongue as easily as any ordinary word. He found he had miles to go before he slept without dreaming of her. He replayed their last meaning over and over to remind himself of the pain. Her words: _hate, pitiful, fallen idol, false friend, deceived_. Anger flickered within him, but was extinguished by the loud female voice to his right.

"I don't think it's so bad."

Erik turned to see a short, lithe girl of about 16 with long blonde hair wrapped into a bedraggled chignon. Her face was ruddy and her cheeks swollen with the effects of playing hard and playing fast. She looked like a young boy. He turned his steely green gaze to her own blue one and stared hard. She didn't flinch.

"I guess most people do not look the way you do, but it is not so awful. You should no look so angry," the girl replied, rocking back on her heels. "Just my opinion," she added hopefully.

When the scarred man did not reply, she ventured on. "I think most people are stupid, monsieur. Please forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but they are. What you are on the outside is not reflected on what you look like on the outside. My maman taught me that."

Erik just stared at her. No one had dared to talk to him in all the time he had been imprisoned. People had only hurled insults and jokes like pebbles on a lake. They skip, skip, skip across him, finally landing in his depths with a resounding plop. Outside, he was like a mirror: he only reflected their derision. But this girl ... Erik did not understand what she was playing at. It was only a cruel joke, he supposed. A glint of malice could be seen in his eyes as he watched her. He would terrify this girl yet.

But he was not prepared for her next words.

"Who's Christine?"

**Vicomtess** Christine de Chagny gazed across the setting sun and warmth filled her soul. Bordeaux was absolutely lovely in the summertime.

In the distance, she could just make out the Garonne River which flowed quietly into the Bay of Biscay. When she and her husband had decided to stay at one of the de Chagny summer estates outside of Paris, Christine had been especially attracted to Bordeaux because of its littering of canals within the city. The house was miles from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Secretly, what had attracted Christine to the Bordeaux cottage house was its simplicity. Though the opulence of their home in Paris was beautiful to look at, it often overwhelmed her. The relative smallness of their cottage allowed her freedom from servants and aristocrats. She liked that.

Christine remembered when they had settled into the Bordeaux house, Raoul had taken Christine out on the gondola.

"Shall I sing to you, Madame?" Raoul asked with a grin, as he poled them effortlessly forward through the clear depths of the river.

Christine paled slightly and turned her face away from her husband. Raoul misinterpreted her pause.

"You think me a terrible singer, Madame?" he joked. Christine's head swam with images of another gondola in another time, but she managed to equip a convincing smile.

"Of course not, my love," she smiled. "Just no more of Faust. Terribly dry, that," she said with an exaggerated English accent.

Raoul laughed, as she always made him laugh. She was beautiful, her white summer dress spread around her like goose down, her dark curly hair free flowing in the wind. More than that, she was happy. A small smile alighted her face and the glow of the sun only made her that more luminescent. He had sighed, unable to believe he had ended up with such a wonderful woman.

That was four years ago, only mere months after -

Christine's thoughts came to a halt and she formed a thin, tight line with her mouth. She had come to accept that she could not rid this man from her thoughts. So much of her life up until she was 16 had been embroiled in the man whom she called the Angel of Music. To think of the details had often been painful, but it was also wrought with times of intense joy. She did not know which kind of memories hurt more.

Since she and Raoul had fled the Opera Populaire years ago, she had not spoken of him. When Raoul had asked her about him, she refused to answer and simply said that "It is in the past." She had married Raoul and been living at their Paris estate for four beautiful years without the mention of his name. She reasoned that if her thoughts never escaped her lips, she could not possibly burden Raoul with the guilt that she felt, a guilt she was unable to accept as real. More than that, she did not want to accept the possibilities of that guilt and why it had cursed her so. If she simply did not talk of him, he would disappear from her life.

Now she knew that was not that case. The Phantom of the Opera, her Angel of Music, had awakened in her a harsh reality that her 16 years old innocence could not - and did not want to - understand. Now she knew the gravity of what she had done. Her nights were sleepless thinking of his agony at her refusal to give him the only thing he wanted. Though she had been sure she did not love him romantically, she had misunderstood the fire in his eyes as anger. And her response to his touch, she could not understand. As a married woman and a few years wiser, she now did. She understood him and hated herself.

She loved Raoul. Loved him for everything they had once sung about. With him, she was content. Living as a Vicomtess had been an adjustment, as had the servants, the parties, the people. Mostly, Christine just smiled.

Right now, Christine missed him. He had financed the building of the Grand Theatre, a great opera house to be built in the heart of Bordeaux and his business had taken him out of the France to Luxembourg, Germany, where the owner of the dilapidated building lived. It had seemed that the owner, Monsieur Andre St. Cyr, did not want to give up his building, a clothing store in bad business, without a fight.

"Christine!"

Christine started suddenly, her breath caught in her throat and a blush of guilt spreading up her neck. The voice belonged to Brigitte Mercier, Christine's favorite maid. Christine realized she had clenched her fists and had been worrying at a handkerchief. She relaxed her hands, silently berating herself for her foolishness.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so sorry!" Brigitte exclaimed, her cherub cheeks reddening in her plump, plain face. Her hair, always in disarray, was in a lazy bun and her dress was slightly rumpled. "I'm sorry, Madame de Chagny. I did not mean to call you by your first name."

Christine looked around in mock suspicion. "Well, no one's here." She paused. "I think now you can call me Christine."

Brigitte giggled. "Oui, Madame." Christine wagged an insolent finger at Brigitte. "Oops. I mean, Christine."

Christine smiled at Brigitte warmly. This had become a game to them now. The first time Brigitte had called Christine by her first name, it had been at a social gathering at the house. The room of upper-class nobles had all but gasped in shock. Awkwardly, Christine had forced a laugh and said, "She's new." She ushered poor, embarrassed Brigitte from the room amid disapproving stares. She caught Phillippe, Raoul's brother, utter, "Common." Her face turned an ugly shade of scarlet, but quickly faded as she and Brigitte dissolved into a fit of giggles.

When Christine had married Raoul, she had found it difficult to become accustomed to servants fixing her hair, picking out her clothes and serving her meals. She had not even expected for someone to help her wash.

"I'm not a child, I can bathe myself."

"No one thinks you're a child, darling," Raoul replied, a patient smile on his face. He knew Christine was not yet adjusted to this new life of pretension and glamour. He was never embarrassed of her; rather, he enjoyed the widening of her eyes and the "O" of her lips at the mention of a new custom or tradition not known to her.

"But I cannot deny you." He took her hand and kissed it gently, then ushered the servants out of the room. With a smile, he backed out of the room as Christine got undressed. Secretly, she had wished for him to stay.

It was after her bath that she met Brigitte. The small girl had burst into the room with a holler of "Madame!" and quickly began attending to Christine wet hair. Christine's mouth hung open at the openness of this girl, and Brigitte must have noticed for she began to apologize profusely.

"Oh, Madame! Please excuse me, I forget my manners! My name is Brigitte Mercier and I will be your maid, Madame.

"Oh, goodness, I always forget my manners. It's just that I was so excited to meet the new Vicomtess that I flew in here as soon as I had heard you had arrived and, my word, you have beautiful hair! Positively lovely! I do so love fixing a good head of hair."

Brigitte rattled on for many moments more before Christine had a chance to speak. Again, the apologies rained from Brigitte and Christine smiled. She liked this girl. Among the stiff upper-class of the bourgeoisie, Christine always felt somewhat vulnerable and inevitably clumsy. She felt that she was the outsider among an inside joke that she couldn't understand, even if the noble-bloods had bothered to explain it to her. That was no matter, however. She had Raoul, she had comfort; she could not think of more for herself. And now, it appeared that she had a friend.

Christine smiled at Brigitte's across the veranda, the sun setting behind her creating an angelic halo of light. "What are so excited about, my dear?" Christine inquired. Brigitte was even more bouncy than usual.

Brigitte stilled for a moment and then thought. Perhaps she should keep what she knew to herself. With a soft shake of her unkempt head, she decided. She simply smiled and said, "Christine, you must help me."

**The** shock that ran through his body was almost palpable, for Brigitte looked at him curiously and said, "Are you alright, monsieur?"

A cold steel stiffened his spine and he spoke bitterly, "That is none of your concern, child. Away with you. I would not have your name sullied by conversing with a monster."

So pleased was Brigitte that he had finally responded, she pressed on, not noting the darkness that had begun to deepen the hate in his eyes to furor. "Oh! I only ask, monsieur, because my lady, she is named Christine. She is very beautiful, oh yes, monsieur, with the most lovely brown curly hair. She is a most lovely singer and married to the most lovely man and –"

She was interrupted by a sudden roar. She jumped back when she realized it had come from the man in the cage.

"Silence! Why must you torture me so? Why must you persist in reminding me of her!" He was wild before her, heaving and shaking and snapping his eyes about.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but what do you mean?"

"Leave, child," his voice came out defeated, a shadow of the angry ambience of before. "Leave," he turned towards her, "or I will make you live to regret it."

Empty as his threat was, Brigitte intrinsically felt he had not failed on his words before. The man she saw before her, caged, miserable, deformed – she understood his behavior and she did not hate him for it. She watched his bowed head curiously. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to his. When she made contact, he pulled away and hissed as if she had burned him.

"Oh, monsieur. I do not feel pity for you," her voice was quieter, almost conciliatory. "I wish you to be free. Free from here."

At this, Erik raised his head to look at her. He did not speak, but watched her. With the smallest of gestures, he beckoned her forth. Brigitte felt compelled forward before she was even aware of her feet. She found she was unable to look away from those eyes, so bright and green they almost crackled with intensity. She was not acutely aware of the mosquitoes buzzing at her head or the terrible smell of Erik's enclosure. She watched as he drew forward and summoned her still forth. He studied her and for the first time, Brigitte felt a cold shiver of fear down her spine.

"There can be no freedom for me." His voice was a low, guttural growl. He had seen the shroud of intimidation briefly light her eyes. Prepared for her insolence as it were, he could not help but be surprised at Brigitte's next words.

"Oh, yes, monsieur, there is." She nodded, a smile on her face, her bedraggled hair bouncing. "I will see to it."


	3. The Gypsies

The Gypsies:

A/N: I have made some small changes to chapter two (mostly time sequence).

Christine furrowed her brow at Brigitte, amused but slightly worried at her serious tone. The girl had just asked for her help, something that Brigitte had done before. Once, Brigitte had found a cat stuck in a tree, mewling terribly. She had felt so badly for the trapped animal that she had run full out to the summer home, her heart beating madly and her lungs nearly spent. By the time she had reached Christine, she had been breathless and Christine had barely been able to understand her choked words.

"It is – cat – stuck – in tree – please – help!" Brigitte's normally ruddy face was flushed to an angry shade of crimson in her distress.

"There's a, a cat, Brigitte?" Christine worry melted as realization dawned on her. She smiled, barely suppressing a giggle. Seeing the seriousness on the girl's face, Christine had adopted an expression of absolute resolution and marched off in search of the poor arboreal feline.

"What is it, Brigitte? Another cat?" Christine asked.

"No, Christine, oh no, this is much more serious," Brigitte shook her head firmly, her eyes shining with the secret she held.

Christine's face grew serious. "It's a dog, isn't?"

Brigitte allowed herself a laugh at the joke. Shaking her head again, just as firmly as before, she grew more insistent. "Christine! This has nothing to do with stray beasts! You must believe!"

"Alright, Brigitte, alright! Please tell me what it is that has you in such a state of desperation," Christine smiled, then added, "As a Vicomtess, I command it."

"It is a man!" she blurted out. "A man! He is trapped. A horrible thing, these gypsies. And people pay and it's awful, they laugh at his deformity, but he cannot help it, he is but a man after all -"

"Wait, Brigitte, you're not making any sense." Even as she spoke, she was flooded with memories. It rushed back upon her with the force of a maelstrom, despair immediately settling into her heart.

"Erik," Christine began tentatively. "How did you get those scars upon your back?"

Immediately, he had stiffened. Christine watched his elegant formed, swathed in a black velvet suit, a crisp white shirt gently ruffled at the neck, his cravat shining with blinding white that was rivaled only by the immaculateness of his mask. He had turned from her, his back like steel, her heart in her throat. She released the scarf she had been twisting furiously with her hands in anxiety for this moment. She rose, her steps light and reluctant but her mind made up. She touched his shoulder, feeling the hardness of his tense muscles, a small shudder running through her body. She was not afraid, no; the shudder warmed her, rather than chilled her.

Erik felt her quake and felt ashamed that she should fear him still. Though these memories had him twisted in a web of misery, he could not deny her any more than he wished to frighten her. He turned around and was surprised to see the gentleness in her eyes.

"You are not afraid" he questioned, disbelieving.

Confusion puzzled her pretty features. "Afraid? Of you, Erik?

"Oh no, I never wish for you to think I fear you, Erik. I am – intimidated. By your intelligence, you wit, your genius, oh, God, your music." She touched his masked face hesitantly, relieved when he didn't shy away. "Why anyone would hurt you because of this," he ran her fingers over his mask in wonder, "does not make sense with me."

Suddenly, his hands came about her waist and she was forced up against the hardness of his body. She gasped in shock at the quickness of his touch but quieted at the feel of his body against hers. Fire ran in her blood as she stared into his eyes, flashing green and intense at her own wide brown ones. Her mouth parted slowly as she watched his curve into a smile, wicked and foreboding. Immediately, a bolt of fear went through her and she breathed a tiny moan. Erik lowered his face to hers, his lips brushing against her cheek as he made his slow, torturous way to her ear.

"Christine," his words tickled her neck and her skin reacted to the warmth of his breath on her flesh. Erik felt her body quiver against his own. He ran his hand up from her waist to the back of her head, tangling his hands in her hair. "Do you not fear me now?"

"N-n-no," she managed to gasp, her body reacting traitorously to his touch. She only wanted to be closer to him, to put her lips on his own. She blushed at her own thoughts, knowing he did not wish to arouse her in this way.

"No, Erik, I do not fear you," her voice came out as a whisper.

Erik drew back, studying her face, noting the flush of her cheeks and her open lips. He felt his cock stir at her bated breath and quickly released her. His thoughts had turned to Christine, nude in his bed, her body writhing intimately against his own as he rocked deep inside her. He turned away from her once again, willing his thoughts away, disgusted with himself that he could not keep control around this beautiful innocent girl.

"Gypsies," he said suddenly.

At first, Christine did not comprehend his words, so rhapsodic was she from their physical closeness. His words suddenly made sense in her ears, still buzzing from his lips.

"Oh," she said simply, unable to say more. She slumped into the chaise, hoping that sitting down would quiet her body. Quietly, she ventured. "What happened?" She forced her voice to be steady, unwilling to break the spell of trust that he had created in his admission.

"I was captured as a child by a traveling carnival. My mother had abandoned me, so disgusted was she by my face and I had wandered around until they found me. The gypsies. I was caged and given a canvas sack to cover my head with two tiny eyeholes. They allowed me to keep a toy to quiet my cries at night. It was a toy monkey like this one," he gestured to the music box.

"When the crowds came, he would beat me. Because I was 'the Devil's Child,'" he spit out these words with such hate that Christine nearly recoiled. Tears streamed down her face and she was unable to keep out a sob.

"Why?"

Erik whipped around, his cape swirling around him like the wings of a bat. In an instant he was by her side, binding her wrists with his hands. Christine choked on a sob as he wrenched her toward him.

"Why? Why! Because of this!" He forced her hand to his masked face and ripped it from him. She did not pull away from him as he had hoped, but only quieted her sobs. She had seen his face before, when curiosity had moved her. She looked into his eyes and he saw pity. Disgusted, he turned his face from her, tears threatening to fill his eyes.

He felt her hand on his marred cheek and bowed his head in shame. Gently, she turned his face to her, but he could not look at her tear-stained face.

"Forgive me, Erik," she had wanted to say. "Forgive my foolishness. I do not see your face, only your beauty." But she was frightened by the magnitude of her feelings for this man, so she simply said, "Erik."

Christine was ripped from her reverie at Brigitte's insistent voice. "We must go quickly! It is almost nightfall, perhaps by the cover of dark, we can help him escape."

Christine forced a laugh, trying to bid her memories behind her. "Brigitte, really, you are a most imaginative girl. You and your books; you always come up with the most wild schemes." She laughed again, but she was piqued both the seriousness of Brigitte and the remembrance of her words. "This – this man. You said he had a deformity?"

Relieved that Christine was taking her seriously, Brigitte spilled out quickly, "Yes! He has a deformity and that is why the gypsies have him. He is caged because of that. Oh, Christine, I have spoken to him and he is in the most terrible state. He would not speak at first, but when he did, he cried out 'Why must you remind me of her?'"

"Who? Who was he speaking of?" she asked, puzzled.

"He would not say, but only moments before he had said your name," Brigitte replied.

Christine's face paled. "My name?"

"Yes. Well, he said 'Christine' and I told him about you."

"Brigitte," Christine's eyes had grown dark and the maid was immediately struck by her gravity. "What did he look like?"

"His face, the right side of it is disfigured." For once, Brigitte ended her bubbling tirade for she had noticed Christine's reaction.

"My God," Christine breathed, he body falling over. She hugs her knees to her chest, whispering "My God" over and over again. Brigitte sat beside her on the bench, rubbing her back in the most caring of ways.

"It's alright, Christine, I know it's terrible, but we must help him. I have a plan. We can go at nightfall, which will be soon. I can pick the lock – oh, Christine, I should tell you, I've had quite a different life before we met. But I can pick the lock and we can set him free! We should take the horses, in case we need to make a fast escape. Christine?"

Christine ran to the side of the veranda and vomited over the railing. She sobbed out as the bile rose in her throat, silent tears stinging her cheeks. Her teary eyes saw that she had vomited on her favorite rose bed that she had planted for Raoul the year before. The beautiful flowers were stained and ugly in her wake.

Brigitte ran to her side, duly sickened by the affect her words had had on Christine. She should have known a lady of Christine's stature would not be able to handle such disturbing information.

"Oh, Christine, forgive me!" Brigitte cried. "Forgive my foolishness!"

At these words, Christine stood straight. She wiped her mouth with the handkerchief Brigitte had extended to her. "Brigitte, it is not your fault. I was – reminded."

Brigitte was confused by her words, but paid no heed. "Never mind, Christine, forget I even spoke so foolishly. Let us go inside and make some tea." She began to walk.

"No."

Brigitte stalled her pace and turned to Christine. She was about to query her lady but Christine spoke first.

"No, we cannot forget it." Christine stood rigidly, all traces of her earlier weakness leaving her. Her mind was racing furiously and her heart pounded so hard that she was afraid it would break loose from her chest. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Get my coat and fetch the horses. Quickly"

Without a word, Brigitte ran.


	4. The Escape

The Escape

A/N: Thanks you for the reviews; I have made some adjustments to the story as recommended. Shout out to my wicked-awesome beta, **Agent Sculder**, who is writing a wonderful story called Contact. Check it out and please remember to review!

I've tried to make adjustments several times, but was not being kind. Hopefully, this will take.

"**What** the hell did you think you were doing!"

Erik raised his head and saw the gypsy, short and reedy, standing before him. His hair was the color and texture of oil, the thin, greasy strands tied back with a filthy scarf. He had a gaudy gold earring in his left ear and several missing teeth. The ones that remained were mottled by dueling brown and yellow. His lips were pulled back in a sneer, causing the lines of age around his mouth to become prominent with the streaks of dirt that colored his face. Erik watched, hatred burning in his eyes, as he began to unbuckle his belt from the cheap fabric of his pants.

"You dare to _speak_ to the customers who pay to see your ugly countenance? We are in the business of illusion, sir," at this word, he spat upon Erik in disgust. "You play the role of the monster, and I play the role of the collector." The gypsy stopped speaking at the smile that had appeared on Erik's face.

Erik smile reached his eyes, but the emotion displayed was not one most associated with a smile. It was Erik's smile, though, and he was anything but normal. This man, this filthy, abhorrent man who came to ruin him, to spill his rotten seed inside him, had ignited feeling his Erik's heart. The familiar taste of bloodlust wet his tongue and he became insatiable for the gypsy's blood to spill from his veins like rain under his hand. When Erik's dreams were not haunted by Christine's face, he dreamt of the gypsy in a way that caused his waking to be filled with repugnant joy.

He had killed him a hundred different ways in his sleep. His hands had wrapped around the gypsy's neck, choking the breath from his lungs. He had reveled in the feel of the gypsy's pulse in the hollow of his neck as it sped up frantically like the crashing of timpani, then slowed to the sorrowful drumbeat of death. He had felt the crush of the gypsy's spine under his hands, the straining muscles in his throat. He had watched as his eyes bulged with panic. He had delighted in the slow sapping of life that caused the gypsy's eyes to glaze over sightlessly.

Every night, he had killed him. Under his hand, the gypsy had been strangled, stabbed, crucified, and beaten to death. He had envisioned every form of torture, from bloodletting to the breaking of his fingers, toes, kneecaps, spine and finally, the blissful crunch of his neck separating from his skull.

The gypsy let out a low laugh, tearing Erik from his fantasy. "You like this, now, do you? You're not the first. They always turn from hate to love." He dropped his pants, and Erik turned away in revulsion. The gypsy watched him, his face turning cowardly and his defenses dropping. He smirked and grew harder at the reaction of this deformed man. He approached him and knelt to stroke his hair.

The gypsy let out a scream as Erik's hands came around his neck. His eyes bulged as he felt his breath being sucked away by this man, whose eyes blazed. He clutched as Erik's chained hands, pulling desperately and grunting with the combined expenditure of his efforts and the asphyxiating hold Erik had on his neck.

Erik watched callously, recalling an incident at the Opera Populaire. Joseph Buquet had met his end this same way, only now Erik regretted it. Buquet was far less deserving of his death than the man who struggled like a fish on a hook before him.

"You bastard," Erik choked out, his voice raw with hate. "You filthy bastard." At this he tightened his hold, rejoicing in the familiar crack of bone. The gypsy's eyes rolled back as he reached frantically behind him for something Erik could not see. Suddenly, Erik felt a mighty blow upon his head. He released the gypsy and felt the instrument strike him twice more. Then, he felt no more.

Breathing raggedly, the gypsy stood above him, clutching Erik's steel water bowl in his hand. He cursed over and over, flinging the bowl at the man lying prone before him. When he had regained his stolen breath, dropped to his knees, pulling the unconscious form or Erik toward him. _Fool_, he thought. _His disobedience will not go unpunished._

**Christine** drew her coat around her shoulders, feeling a cold chill freeze her body which she knew had nothing to do with the night air. The sky had turned a lovely shade of purple, navy blue creeping in to steal its glory. She silently thanked the clouds which threatened to obscure the moon's light. _With hope, it would envelope the moon completely._

Brigitte had readied the horses, and now the two dark mares stood mere feet before her. Brigitte had mounted her horse minutes before and now stood in wait for Christine. Christine rushed inside, much to the bewilderment of Brigitte, and came out shortly holding a small satchel. She stuffed the bag into her coat. The bag jangled as she moved, and Brigitte asked, "What's that for?"

Sliding one foot into the stirrup, Christine grasped the horn of the saddle and swung upward in a graceful motion. Although it was proper for noblewoman to ride sidesaddle, Christine had always preferred to ride with either leg slung around her horse, skirt or no.

"My dear, "she began, "if I have learned anything from marrying a Viscount, it is that people can be bought." With a tight smile, Christine dug her heels in and was off at a comfortable canter that surely turned into a swift gallop.

Brigitte gaped at her words, but took up with the same fervor. This woman, so pretty with an innocence that belied her experience, never failed to amaze her.

Christine did not tell Brigitte what else she had concealed in her coat. A small pistol, which Raoul had kept in his study drawer, lie quietly in her pocket. She was not so naïve as to think that only money would keep a greedy man away. A woman of her stature could fetch a prettier coin than the ones she had concealed on her person.

Soon they were riding quickly through the dense forestry of Bordeaux toward the camp of the gypsies. Brigitte had told Christine where the gypsy's had set up their carnival. Christine knew a shortcut and followed a brook which she knew led from the city's centre to the Mediterranean. Just before the city, they would come upon the camp. _They would come upon Erik_, she realized, a lump rising in her throat. But she shook her head resolutely, for tears would not save him this time.

It seemed that they had only been riding for minutes before they came upon a clearing in the woods. Christine reined in her horse, and gestured for Brigitte to do the same. They stood at the edge of the wood, peering out through foliage for a glimpse of the encampment. They did not need to look hard, for fires lit up the dark sky, giving light to prying eyes. Christine dismounted and began to walk when she heard Brigitte hiss, "Wait!"

Christine turned, and the girl answered her silent question. "We must go this way." Throwing the reins over her horse's head, she began to move westward and Christine followed her. "Where are we going?" Christine whispered.

"Shhh, you must trust me."

Then silence fell upon them and Christine allowed herself to think. A barrage of thoughts swelled upon her and she felt dizzy from the force. Panic dueled with fear and pity and another emotion she could not name stilled her heart. She felt a familiar ache, an ache from many years past that she hadn't felt since – since him.

_Oh, Erik_, she thought bitterly. _I have done this to you, my love_.

Even as guilt swathed her, she was taken aback by her own thoughts. _My love_? Surely, she had meant this in a facile way. He had been many things to her, a father, a mentor, a maestro, a friend, and something else she was afraid to name. As her feet carried her closer and closer to him, she felt as though she could burst from the emotion. Everything in her called for her to breakdown and cry out, sob until her tears paid for her guilt. But her heart called for her to do more than cry for him. She knew if she was to pay for what she'd done to him, she had to save him from this.

Suddenly, Brigitte stopped. She tied up her horse and Christine did the same. Christine had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed their trek around the forest's edge. They walked until they could see another clearing. Now they faced the carnival site, littered with the junk of fair-goers. Cages dotted the grounds, and Christine could hear the sounds of animals shifting restlessly in their enclosures.

"Look! He's there!"

She turned to the girl whose face was lit up with excitement. She was pointing a shaky finger and Christine followed her meaning and gasped. There, less than fifty feet away, Christine saw him. His hands were bound to chains which glinted cruelly in the moonlight. His scarred face was turned toward her, his thin hair barely obscuring his profile. Unbidden tears ran down her face and she breathed his name. Brigitte did not hear her, so enamored was she with the task they had before them.

_Oh, my beautiful Angel. What have they done to you? What have _I_ done to you?_

Suddenly, a man entered the cage and both women stilled. From their vantage point, they could barely make out his words. Christine watched in horror as he unbuckled his belt. He was going to beat her poor angel! When he removed his pants, her blood ran cold.

Christine had heard much gossip at the Opera Populaire among the dancers. She had heard of sex between two men, but had dismissed it as simply idle myth. This, she knew, was not between two men. This was rape. She covered her mouth to hide her gasp, and grabbed Brigitte to her with her free arm. She shielded the girl's face in her bosom, watching in petrified disbelief as he advanced on Erik. As he knelt to touch her angel's hair, a cold fury swept upon her soul. _How dare he touch him! How dare he!_

Christine made to move, but was stilled when Erik suddenly wrapped his hands around the gypsy's neck. A struggle ensued and Christine found herself praying for the gypsy's defeat. Never had she wished for death before, and frankly, it frightened her. But her ferocity could not be quelled. Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The gypsy struck Erik about the head and was free. As he moved toward Erik, Christine released Brigitte. Holding her at arm's length, she looked into her eyes and said, "Stay here. Whatever happens, you must stay where you are. Only when I call for you will you come near. Keep the horses at the ready. Do you understand?"

Brigitte's face grew solemn and Christine was immediately sad for she recognized that the poor child's innocence was leeching away – _just as her own was_, she thought. Christine touched her hand to the girl's face and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. As quickly as her skirts would allow, she sprinted under the cover of the trees toward Erik's cage. When she got near, she slowed to a walk so as to move as noiselessly as she could. Surreptitiously, she looked around and saw no one. Sure that she was alone and that the gypsy's back was turned away from her, she crept forward.

The gypsy turned Erik over so that he was lying on his front. He was discouraged to see that he had lost most of his erection during the scuffle and began to pull himself heedlessly to hardness. He threw his head back, murmuring to himself.

"Filth."

The gypsy was snapped from his reverie at an unfamiliar voice. He turned around savagely and saw a young woman, small and lithe, standing behind him. He took in her long curls and clear pale complexion, reverently licking his lips. _So it would be two tonight_.

He stood without a word, not bothering to pull his pants back on.

"You will give him to me," Christine said quietly. She took in his nearly naked form with disgust, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

"What does a woman such as yourself want with a creature as monstrous as him?" the gypsy asked, taking a slow step toward her. He watched her face become tight as his words and smiled. She was becoming distracted and would be easy to overtake.

"The only one who is monstrous is you," she spat, nerves tingling. She watched him come closer to her and shakily took a step backwards. The gypsy's smirk grew uglier at this as he knew he had her. A few more steps and she would be his.

As he quickened his pace, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Numbly, his ears registered a loud bang the moment before. He touched his hand to his chest and felt it spurt something warm and sticky. He opened his palm and saw his life's blood spilling from a hole in his chest. He looked up, finally registering the woman before her, desperation in her eyes and a gun in her hand. She was shaking harder than before and he watched as tears sprang to her eyes. He fell to his knees, wondering at how warm his blood felt outside his body. _Funny, I feel cold_, he thought as he slipped away.

Christine watched as he fell to the ground and his body became still. She heard herself cry for Brigitte and felt herself put her gun back in her pocket. Blindly, she ran towards Erik, ignoring the sickness that was threatening to spill forth. _Never have I been so ill so often_, she thought dully.

The sight of her angel lying before her forced a shock through her body. She touched his face, staining it with her tears. Quickly, she sprang into action. She removed a pin from her hair and straightened it until it formed a stiff line. She found the padlocks attached at each wrist and began to work feverishly on one of them. She thanked god for Meg, for when they had been children in the opera house, it had become a game to them to try to unlock the many secret doors in the Opera Populaire. There would be more places to play hide and seek, Meg had reasoned. Christine had not played that game for years and worried that she would not be able to do it as seamlessly as before.

When the lock popped with a satisfying click, Christine breathed a sigh of relief. She was aware of Brigitte and the horses outside the cage. Brigitte dropped the reins and ran to Christine's side, taken aback at the scene before her. Christine was working on the second lock; Brigitte made a mental note to ask her how she acquired such a talent.

When Christine had loosened the manacles from Erik's wrists, she caught her breath as she look at his face. Blood had been trickling slowly down his head from where he had been brutally struck over and over by the gypsy. The mere thought of the man, lying dead only a few feet away from her, inspired such overwhelming revulsion that Christine was taken aback. All of a sudden, she understood.

Gazing down at Erik, she saw his eyes flicker for just a moment. Bringing a hand to his face, she whispered softly to him. Just as quickly as he had opened his eyes, they were closed again and Christine figured that she had imagined it. Just one look into those mercurial eyes transported her back to another time when his eyes had reflected the inspiration and passion of her voice. She decided there and then that she would do anything to bring that passion back to his eyes.


	5. The Dreaming

_A/N: That black widow spider has been fighting me and my story lately, but I hope that by the time this shows up, all corrections that I had promised are posted._

_Thank you to those who have taken the time to review; your kind words inspire. I will say that this story might get a little rockier before it gets better as our characters have a lot to work out. But I do promise hints of sexiness; oh yes, much sexiness._

The Dreaming

The journey home had seemed long and arduous, given the large power of Erik's limp body and the relative miniature of Brigitte and Christine. The two had muddled through, one lost in the fantasy of rescue and the other in a nightmare of her own making. Brigitte and Christine had awkwardly slung Erik's body upon Christine's bay mare, Christine mounted behind him, clutching his body to her chest. Through the thick bush and bramble, they had raced home at a break-neck speed, knowing that at any moment, someone could discover them. _Discover what I had done_, Christine thought dully.

Only once they had broken from the forest and were again heading down the path at the creek's shore did the two women slow their horses. The journey was made in absolute silence, for even Brigitte knew that Christine needed brevity after what she had done.

Brigitte had always been taught not to judge and to hear the other person's side of the story before making her own conclusions. She was filled with hundreds of questions: from the moment Brigitte had told Christine of this entrapped man, a change had come over the vicomtess. She radiated a stillness that Brigitte did not recognize, for so lively and content Christine appeared at most times.

Then there were the tears. She had cried and longed for this man with her body; Brigitte had felt it when Christine had held her close to her. She had felt the quickening of her heart and the heaving of her lungs, the stiffness of her muscles. She had even felt her shiver.

There was more than that, more that Brigitte wished her madam had not had to experience. She had killed a man for the life of a stranger. With this thought, Brigitte felt as if the clouds had parted. _Was he a stranger?_

Brigitte had seen in Christine's face that she held many secrets in her heart. Even with Raoul home, Christine often sought moments of solitude. With an almost impossibly precise frequency, she sought the quiet vigil of the veranda upon the setting sun. She requested that she be left alone to think. When she was finished, she always looked wearier than she had before. _No one who did not have a great guilt weighing on their minds would find the solitude of their own thoughts so harrowing_, Brigitte thought.

Despite her waning eyes, Christine smiled eloquently after her inner views, but Brigitte was not fooled. She longed to ask Christine what it was that plagued her mind, rotting her from the inside out, but the sadness in her eyes caused Brigitte pause.

This was a mask Christine wore, for whatever reasons they might be. Brigitte could only hope that one day she would be free to live without it.

At the house, they recommenced their weighty task of transferring Erik from the horse into their arms and then into the house. Christine thanked God wordlessly that they did not have many servants, and all had retired to their homes downtown Bordeaux for the night. Christine again resumed her spot at the man's head and carried him under his arms with a reverence that caused Brigitte's mind to wonder. Again, she felt as though these two had been acquainted before. It was ludicrous, her mind told her, but inside her, she could not help but feel it was true.

Once inside, Brigitte, her voice shaky from the strain, asked "Where shall we put him."

Without thinking, Christine immediately said, "In my room."

Brigitte did not say a word, but the blush that coloured Christine's face bid her smile. "Forgive my impudence. He shall stay in the spare bedroom upstairs."

Flushing, Christine tried to hide her face from Brigitte's prying eyes. She had given herself away, she was sure, but Brigitte said nothing (and Brigitte was not one to hold her tongue). Christine did not know whether to be relieved or frightened.

Once in the spare room, the two women, breathing heavily, placed Erik on the bed. Immediately, Christine was struck with responsibility and ordered Brigitte to fetch a bucket of hot water, a cloth, laudanum (should he need it) and bottle of brandy to temper his wounds and warm his paled lips. She had contemplated calling a doctor but knew it was far too risky. Besides, Brigitte was proficient in healing wounds as her mother had been a nurse.

Erik was property of the gypsy, she thought angrily, and her own social stature – it was unthinkable. For the hundredth time, she cursed her position as the wife of a nobleman, but was immediately regretful_. Raoul. Oh, if only he knew. What would he think of her? _It was too much to bear.

The moment Christine was alone, her shoulders sagged. The façade of stoic repose that had seized her in Brigitte's presence fled and once again, she was assuaged by a torrent of thoughts. Pressing her lips together tightly to suppress her sobs, she cried silently as she looked upon Erik's wretched form. Wretched for what had befallen him, all at her hands. Though she knew it was foolish to blame herself for the actions of the gypsy, she could not help being overcome by waves of guilt. Her soul felt black, blacker than it had the day she'd walked away from him. She had bequeathed him torture. _A torture he didn't deserve._

Brigitte returned, as did her idle prattle.

"Here you are, Madame. You should clean the wounds with the hot water first – he's mighty filthy by the looks of it – and then use the brandy. Sparingly, though. Rub it on his gums, that will restore color back to his cheeks. Here, let me start at his legs, you begin at his face."

Christine sighed, grateful that Brigitte had relieved her, slightly, of her bane. She washed his face with careful veneration, watching that she did not cleanse too hard or too softly. Inside, she wept, for his physical lacerations ran deep. She touched his head gently, and came away with blood. Blood stained the pillow around him in a great pool and Christine gasped_. Fool,_ she admonished, _how could I forget this?_ It was only then that she noticed the great stain on her blouse where his head had rested. Turning him over, she pressed the washcloth to his head, watching with morbid fascination as it became scarlet.

Brigitte had seen the blood stain the same time Christine had and fled from the room briskly. She returned with yet more cloths, a bandage and needle and thread. Sensing that Christine wanted to tend to this man's pain, she handed her the cloths which Christine took up quickly. She had pressed three cloths to his head and they came away stained without a trace of white peeking through. On the fourth cloth, she felt the pressure abate and said a quick prayer of thankfulness.

"It is stopping," she breathed. "Oh, thank God it is stopping."

The evident relief and gratefulness that lit Christine's face troubled Brigitte and she could not contain herself from blurting out, "Who is this man?"

Wiping a stained hand across her jaw, Christine feigned confusion. Her heart had skipped a beat at Brigitte's words. _Was it that obvious upon my face? Did I wear it like a scarlet letter?_ "I don not know what you mean," she replied, straightening. She did not meet Brigitte's gaze, instead concentrating on the cloth at Erik's head.

Brigitte got up and took the cloth from Christine's hand. She inspected the wound with great scrutiny, a frown on her face. The wound was already showing signs of healing as the spurting of blood slowed down to a trickle. She did not like that Christine was lying to her, but more important things were at hand.

"Good. Keep this pressed to his head while I work on cleaning his wounds," Brigitte said shortly. Turning the man back over, she unbuttoned his shirt and slid it down his shoulders without pause.

As Christine watched her wrestle with Erik's shirt, she was struck with shame. She did not mean to lie to the child. She would tell her – in time.

Her eyes moved to Erik's nearly naked form and she blushed. Despite his limited mobility in the cage, he had kept his muscled build. His chest was a golden brown and flecked with a soft matting of dark hair. His chest was as smooth as his stomach was hard. Christine swallowed stiffly at the sight. She had almost forgotten his unmarred beauty. He was handsome and masculine and she immediately felt a familiar warmth between her thighs not unlike the first – the last! – time they had kissed. Again, sorrow maimed her passionate response. Shaking her head delicately, she pushed these thoughts away and rested a hand on his strong shoulder.

It seemed like hours had passed before they were done. Brigitte had stitched up Erik's wound once it had stopped bleeding with the expertise beyond her years. Christine had put brandy to his lips, gently rubbing his lips and gums and sighing as a little colour returned to his face. She had undressed him shyly, carefully averting her eyes, but still a bolt of excitement shot through her. She bid it farewell and adorned him in a spare dressing gown. She covered him with quilt upon quilt and ordered Brigitte to have the fireplace blazing.

When she was satisfied that all had been taken care of, she collapsed in soft sofa near the bed with a groan. She did not want for food or sleep as she took up vigil beside him. She refused all of Brigitte's offerings and sweetly, but tiredly, asked to be alone. As Brigitte began to close the door, Christine called to her, "Wait."

Christine got up and approached Brigitte tentatively, as a child approaches its mother after behaving badly. She looked into her eyes, and Brigitte smiled. The concern, fear, fatigue and sadness nearly broke her heart. She reached out her arms to Christine and she hugged Brigitte fiercely. "Thank you," she whispered. Brigitte pulled away and nodded, clasping Christine's hands in understanding. Christine felt her silent acquiescence and was grateful.

"Now, I order you to go to sleep, my dear," she said firmly, a trace of humour still left in her voice.

"As you wish, Madame," she replied seriously. She smiled at Christine and left, a sadness in her heart that she could not fathom.

When the door had closed, her arms fell to her side. She took a deep breath, ready for s long night, knowing she would not sleep while Erik's future was still uncertain. As she turned, she was stopped by something that froze her soul to its very core.

"_Christine_."


	6. The Waking

The Waking

Christine's breath caught in her throat. She was not ready, not ready for this, _for him_! Her heart racing, she turned to face him, already picturing his eyes, green and accusing.

Finding his face, she breathed a sigh of relief. He was still asleep. Even in sleep, his voice still managed to arouse her senses without the permission of her mind. With one word, she had begun to respond just as surely as if his hands were grazing her skin. That _voice_, she thought.

Coming closer to the bed, she gazed down at his face, her eyes settling on his mouth. His voice travelled through his mouth, deep and inviting with a hint of danger, through his sensuous lips and moistened tongue. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to his mouth and traced his lips carefully. Thoughts of their kiss, their only kiss, invaded her. She touched her fingers to her lips.

When she had kissed him, he had been hesitant, disbelief making his whole body limp. Slowly she had begun to respond, pressing his mouth against hers harder than before. She had pulled away to look into his eyes, seeing heartbreak and knowing it was reflected in her own. She wanted then, more than anything, to love him with all her heart, wanted to be with him. She'd kissed him again, the pressure of his mouth on her own making her lips tingle and her body shudder. He had touched his tongue to hers briefly, testing her reaction. She responded slowly and felt her body react. The intensity was foreign to her. She drew back, and saw the tears. Sorrow etched his features as the shame in what he had forced her to do fell upon him. Stunned, Christine could do no more than watch, their kiss still searing her lips.

He had told her to go. Raoul, she thought blankly. Seeing him, she ran to him, ran to the safety of his arms. He would hold her, hide her from what she was feeling. She had freed him, throwing her arms around him desperately. Erik's voice, sad and defeated, reached her and she became afresh with tears. She needed to get away.

Christine knew now that she had been weak. Her flight was the action of a child, wanting nothing more than to escape. Now that she was older, she was no longer afraid of the dark.

Wrapped in Raoul's arms, she was choked with emotion. The realization that she was leaving Erik with nothing more than the stain of her tears on his face and words of despair hit her hard. She grew cold in Raoul's arms, the earlier comfort of his touch seeping away. Raoul pulled away, looking at her in confusion. She had backed away, pleading with him to understand. He had grasped her hand, and she held onto until it slipped away. Blindly, she had rushed back to him, hardly knowing what she would do when she got there.

There he had been, broken and helpless. Just as she had been a child to run from him, he had regressed as well. The pain of what she had done to him had been overwhelming. _I had run to Raoul, he had run to the music box_, she thought. His voice, soft and cracked, fell gently around him. She felt a fresh wave of sadness vex her. Then he had turned, and they had looked at each other as if across a playground. Two people, ripped of their souls, staring into each others eyes from a place neither had seen in years.

"Christine, I love you."

The hope in his face had been terrible. Unable to meet his eyes any longer, she had looked down into her hands. Carefully she had wedged the ring from her finger and took his hand in her own. She had placed it gingerly in his palm and closed his hand around it. With one movement, she had given him back her chains. Tears spilled down his face. He understood. She no longer belonged to him.

She had backed away, gripped by a fierce need to stay. Each step took her farther away from beauty, music, passion, need. She was almost strangled by these feelings, intrinsically knowing that she was making a mistake.

As Raoul had taken her away on the gondola, she looked back at him. _Looking back_, Christine thought, _I should have never looked back_. As he lay in her bed now, she understood that to look back was admit regret. _I look back at him everyday of my life_. Every quiet moment, every evening on the veranda was filled with thoughts of him. She missed him terribly, was wounded with the guilt of her betrayal, and felt for him so deeply she could not name it.

She sank into the sofa, pulling her knees up around her. As he slept, she watched him. She adored him.

Morning dawned too soon. Christine had given into sleep after hours of watching over Erik. The rays filtered through the curtained windows, casting a hazy glow about the room. The silence was only disturbed by the buzz of busy insects of the cackle of a birds in the trees. So it was without ears to hear his movements that Erik awakened.

He opened his eyes briefly, the dull throbbing in his head immediately making him groan and the light stung his eyes. He brought a hand to his head, but felt a feathery bulk instead. Instantly, he was struck with confusion. There was not wood and straw underneath him and he was not hit with the fetid stink of rotting wood. He forced his eyes open and saw a pink wall. Panicked, he took in the quilts over his body, the mahogany footboard and rich, winding posts of an opulent bed. On the wall in front of him was a picture of a field. To his right was a great armoire which sat on a lush, creamy carpet he imagined would sink softly under his feet. A closet stood next to the armoire.

Bracing his hands behind him, he tried to sit up but was stilled by a soft sigh to his right. He turned and nearly gasped. There, in the soft arms of a tawny linen couch, was Christine. She was sleeping, her body in delicate repose. Lines of worry etched her forehead and her lips were parted in a small pout. She had evidently drawn a great black cloak around her before sleeping and it was now tangled around her. His mouth opened slightly as he drank in her body. She looked just the same, soft curves and creamy flesh. She was dressed in a dusty rose gown, casual and unadorned with frills or lace. It was simple and classy. Her hair was wild around her, her curls pulled loose from their pins.

Right away, Erik knew he had finally lost his mind.

_Perhaps I am in hell_, he thought. Trapped in a room with her for all of eternity, knowing she would only give him scorn and pity. With a great effort, he swung his legs onto the floor, immediately regretting the action. Blood rushed to his skull and pounded with the force of stormy waves upon the surf. He clutched a hand to his face, feeling the rough, scarred flesh underneath. _If this was hell, she would have to look at his horrid face forever._

Ignoring the pulsing pain and the dizziness, Erik got to his feet with a great heave. He swayed slightly, but righted himself, the room swimming before his eyes. He ignored it all. He had to know she was real.

A few unsteady steps and he was looming upon her. He reached out, watching as his hand shook. Was it because of his injuries or something more? Very slowly, he inched his hand closer to her peaceful face. Before he could touch her skin, her eyes snapped open.

Erik wrenched his hand back as if burned. Her eyes filled with shock and she gave a tiny gasp. "Erik," she said quietly, reaching out a hand to him.

He stumbled backwards, falling against the bed. He had to get away, get away from this nightmare.

He tried to drag himself away from her. His legs became tangled in the sheets, and he stopped, staring at her. As he looked into her face, the events of the night before rushed back. He became sick to his stomach.

The gypsy had come for perverse pleasure, to take Erik's unwilling body once again. Erik had tried to kill him, but he had escaped. Then he had succumbed to darkness. _Christine_, he thought, panicked, _oh, God, had she seen? Did she know? _Dread crept into his spine as he remembered her face. It had been just a moment, just a milky flash, but he had seen her. He thought he had imagined her, her face hovering above him, her hand caressing his face. She had murmured to him as he had slipped into unconsciousness.

Christine watched as his face turned from fear, to confusion, to horror, then to realization. She stood quietly as her eyes flooded with tears.

It was silent. He refused to look at her, instead inclining his head to the right stoically. Stung, Christine recoiled as surely as if he had slapped her.

Fatigue advanced on Erik, and he fell back against the pillow, breathing hard. Thoughts swirled around him like an undertow, drawing him further and further within himself. He could not look at her when she had seen him like _that_.

"Erik, please," Christine pleaded, not sure what she was asking for. Her voice came out as a sliver; she hardly recognized herself. _She didn't deserve anything but his hate._ His silence buffeted her fiercely and she could not help a few tears from sliding out her eyes. She sniffled softly.

His anger at what she had seen receded and was replaced by despair at the sound of her tears. No matter how much he hated her in this moment, it still broke his heart when she cried. _Damn her!_ He settled back against the pillow as pain in his head nearly blinding him. He turned his face from her and closed his eyes. His throbbing skull and weak body had resigned him to stay where he was. He could not move; he had no choice but to stay.

He _was_ in hell.

Sleep took him quickly, and Christine was alone once again. His refusal to speak said more than words ever could. She had seen his eyes had grown dull at the realization that Christine knew what had happened to him. She was choked with despair and anger that he had been subjected to that horror – _again_.

Though she had no expectations up until then how Erik would behave when he realized what she had seen, she felt somewhat hurt at his reaction. A part of her had hoped he would be glad to see her, that he would take her in his arms and whisper, "Thank you." _Foolishness_, she chastised herself. _You are still a child at heart, aren't you Christine? Or perhaps a silly romantic_.

Romantic – that thought had come unbidden. How could she think of Erik romantically when she was married! When she had left him to marry Raoul, she had made a choice, a choice that would affect her for the rest of her life. She was not so stupid to shoulder her naiveté with all the blame. Yes, she had been young, but she was not without some modicum of maturity. She knew she was hurting him by turning away and escaping into the arms of another man, but she had too selfish and blinded by her affections for Raoul.

In Raoul's arms, she knew she had safety and love. She knew she could hide. To marry Raoul had been logical. And she loved him. What Erik had brought out in her was unnamed. Still, curiosity racked her. The fire on her skin when he had touched her was a not so distant memory. On nights when Raoul was out of town, she thought of Erik and brought herself to release. Afterward, she cried in shame, silently begging for forgiveness. She refused to admit that she wanted more than the physical element they had never explored

More than ever she wished that things could have ended differently. Now it seemed that they were to begin again.

With a sigh, Christine left the room and tottered downstairs. She was immediately thankful at the relative smallness of the house; as a result, Brigitte was the only in-house servant. Once a week, the gardener visited and the horses were tended to by Marc, the stable boy. Christine felt stifled and embarrassed when there were many servants around. Four years of living in the de Chagny estate had not rid her of that.

She found Brigitte in the bright, tastefully decorated kitchen. She was preparing at stew, idly humming a tune Christine did not recognize. Brigitte turned around at the sound of Christine's footsteps. Christine smiled at her tiredly, but Brigitte saw that it did not reach her eyes. Setting down the ladle she was using to stir the soup, she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the woman before her.

"Brigitte – " Christine started, but stopped, unsure of how to begin. Shaking her head slightly, she decided to barrel ahead. "Brigitte, do you recall the story of the phantom of the opera?"

A few hours later, over two cups of steaming Spanish coffee, Christine told Brigitte all she could recall. From the story of the Angel of Music to Don Juan Triumphant, the chandelier crash and their fated farewell, Christine relayed what she had never told anyone, not even Raoul. When she had finished, she felt as if her shoulders were lighter and the clouds over her heart had parted slightly.

Brigitte had heard gossip about Christine and the opera ghost among the servants at the Paris de Chagny estate, but had dismissed it as just that: gossip. She was well aware of the fire at the Opera Populaire and that Christine had worked there as a singer and dancer, but she had dared not ask Christine if the rumours were true. As time passed, she had forgotten about them completely as she and Christine had grown close.

Brigitte had listened in rapt attention as Christine had told her of the Phantom – Erik, rather – and it had all seemed so romantic to her. She was fascinated that the man lying in the room above their heads was the same man who had wreaked horror on the Opera Populaire, all for the love of a woman.

Looking at Christine now, she saw regret in her eyes, woeful with some heavy burden. Though she ached to ask more questions about Erik, she knew now wasn't the time.

"Christine, you really should get some sleep," Brigitte said.

Smiling through her fatigue, Christine replied "Brigitte, darling, I am older than you and yet you still take on the mother role."

"Mother!" Brigitte's mouth fell open in disdain. "I'm your friend, Christine, not your mother. And thank God for that!"

Christine laughed, and realized that she hadn't done so in what felt like a very long time. "Brigitte, I will go to sleep but I must ask you to do something for me," she said, becoming more serious.

After she gave Brigitte her instructions and the maid had departed, Christine laid down wearily on the couch. Sleep claimed her almost immediately. She dreamt of the opera house on fire.

Christine awoke a few hours later to a darkening sky. She was covered in a soft quilt. Brigitte, she realized, a soft smile spreading across her face. Stretching, she got up and walked to the kitchen. Brigitte was washing dishes at the sink and gave her a wan smile at her entry. Three neat parcels rested on the kitchen counter. Christine walked to the stove and stirred the stew, taking a little taste. _Perfect_.

Although Christine had cooked for herself before marrying Raoul, he would not allow her to cook as a Vicomtess. As a concession, she had insisted that Brigitte be the only servant at the summer house. Raoul had fought against her, but had relented in the face of her stubbornness which, he told her, knew no bounds. He had settled to have Jacques Noire, a guard and friend of the de Chagnys, patrol the house nightly to keep her safe in his absence.

"Erik was awake when I came home," Brigitte's voice broke through the muddiness of Christine's thoughts.

Trying her best to act nonchalant, Christine replied, "Oh?"

Rolling her eyes, Brigitte exclaimed, "Yes, and I brought him dinner. He refused to speak. Just mumbled a bit, something about getting clean, so I started boiling water for his bath. Do you think you could help me haul that big old tub from your room into his?" Brigitte face was so innocent that Christine nearly laughed. _He wanted a bath, did he?_ She could not help blushing at the thought of Erik's tall, masculine form, wet and shiny.

Banishing these thoughts from her mind, she nodded her assent and assisted in carrying the tub into Erik's room.

When they entered his room, he was no longer asleep but facing the window. She watched the hard lines of his back stiffen at their footsteps and was immediately hurt. They set down the tub and Brigitte withdrew quietly, returning quickly with towels and the three parcels. As she left, she widened her eyes dramatically. _A storm's a' brewing_, she thought with a smirk, closing the door quietly behind her.

Alone, the water in the tub swishing softly, Christine stood awkwardly with her arms at her sides. "Erik," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She coughed slightly, and tried again. "Erik, you asked for a bath?" She loathed the sound of her voice, meek and childish, not at all like the woman she was supposed to be. "I have had Brigitte run to the market and purchase clothes for you. They are fashioned the way you like," she added hopefully.

When he didn't react, she padded softly over to the bed and sat down on the edge, facing him. Folding her hands in her lap, she looked at them, focusing on the beauty mark on her left forefinger. She twisted her ring as she spoke. "I have not sung since that night."

She did not know why she had said it, but now the words came pouring out in a rush like a bursting dam. "I mean, I do not sing anymore. I do not know, I just – it does not seem right any more. Not without you," she added softly.

Shaking her head, she rose to get up but was stopped by Erik's hand on her wrist. She looked into his face, a veritable yin yang of beauty and darkness. But it was his eyes that drew her, magnetic pools of impossible green flecked with azure and gold. He looked like stone.

"So," he whispered gruffly, "you deny me still?"

Christine's mouth fell open slightly, from his words or his touch, she wasn't sure. She just stared at him dumbly.

Erik smirked, noting her reaction. Before the girl had come with his dinner, he had lay awake, toiling in his thoughts. He had thought of her, hating her for knowing what he'd been subjected to in his heartbreak over _her_. Still, he fell in and out of consciousness without warning and he knew he was trapped here for a while. In his waking hours, he had mulled over Christine and decided. Christine would feel what it was to burn.

His eyes did not leave hers as he released her, almost tossing her hand from his own. He rose from the bed on stronger legs than before and watched her. She had no fear of his face, this he could see. But still her felt naked around her without a mask to hide under. He felt that without his mask he lacked a little of the power he had over her.

Finally, Christine found the words to speak, and sputtered weakly, "I-I don't understand."

"Music," he sighed, his tone bored and far off. "Your voice, all that I gave to you. You deny me." At this his voice grew low, feral and he walked toward her. To Christine, he looked as though he was stalking his prey.

"I do not mean it that way," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. "I guess I just felt lost. I would never intentionally deny you." At this she winced, for she realized she had made a fatal error. Erik loomed over her now, his eyebrows knit. She opened her eyes and he grabbed her shoulders suddenly, pulling her to her feet.

"Foolish girl," he laughed bitterly. "You have not changed."

Christine felt anger surge within her. Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him backward. "Do not put your hands on me again."

Erik raised his eyebrows, a slow smiling spreading across his face. _So_, he thought, _perhaps she had acquired gumption in these past years_. The sight of this woman, small and shaking with rage caused him to laugh once more. "What shall you do about it, Vicomtess de Changy?" he spat. "Where is your precious Viscomte – surely he would not leave you all alone." Carelessly, he pulled his shirt tails from his pants and off his body.

Christine turned away sharply, but it was too late. The image of his torso, taut and sinewy and browned from the sun, lingered.

"He is away on business," she replied, forcing her voice to keep steady. The soft kiss of fabric hit her ears as Erik shed his pants. "He will be back soon," she lied. In fact, Christine had no idea when Raoul would be back. His latest letter said he would be delayed for at least another two weeks to a month, but it was not the first to speak of an extended engagement.

Christine heard the gentle slap of water swishing around the tub. "I will be most thrilled to see him again," Erik said, dark threat lacing his voice.

Whirling around, Christine faced his arrogant face, his hands resting behind his head and a smirk beguiling his features. "Whatever quarrel you have with Raoul, be assured that the brunt of it lies with me. I can stand your taunts, your threats, your truths for I deserve nothing less. Raoul is no part of you and I."

The silence echoed around them. Christine quivered with the emotion of her outburst. Erik watched her, the smug grin never wavering. He placed his hands on either side of the tub and rose slowly. Christine's eyes widened; she backed up and stumbled against the bed. In a flash, he was on her, her hands binding her wrists above her head as he slammed her forcibly against the wall. Christine groaned with the pain of his touch, but could not help but feel aroused at his nearness. His wet body pressed intimately against her soaked through her clothes and moistened her exposed skin. Her lips parted slightly as she registered his hard cock against her thigh.

"That, my dear," he growled, "is for certain."

Brutally, he crushed his lips to hers and all reason left her.


	7. The Punishing

The Punishing

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for your kind words, I really appreciate it! It puts a smile on my face to know that people are enjoying my (first ever) fanfic. Please keep the reviews coming and tell your friends!**

**Just a warning, this chapter is most definitely rated R. Yeah, baby.**

**Another thank you to my beta Agent Sculder who continues to inspire.**

Christine stood rigid in shock as Erik's lips plundered her mouth. His hands pinned her to the wall and the force of his body against hers left no room for escape. He bit at her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and Christine could not help but moan. This man was assaulting her body, the body that belonged to Raoul de Chagny, her husband, and she could not help but give in to his painful, passionate touch.

She had once sung of her soul and mind fighting for dominance of her body and once again, she found herself obeying her soul.

Roughly, Erik took her mouth again and slipped his tongue in, tasting her resistance as it slowly melted into reciprocation. He punished her with his mouth and his hands at her wrists, his body unyielding. When she began to respond, he smirked inwardly. Truth be told, he was enjoying himself, but satisfying the flesh was not his sole intention. She would be his, regardless of the ring on her left hand. He would make her guilty, make her betray her husband – and like it.

His hands released her and he slowly traced the soft pink skin on the underside of her arms down to her collarbone. He felt her shiver beneath his fingers as he reached the apex of her chest. He brought his hands together in the valley of her breasts as if in prayer. He stopped the assault on his mouth and pulled back slightly, finding her eyes with his own. Inch by inch, he moved closer to her mouth, this time taking her gently, delighting in the way her lips were already parted. Her tongue received him and twined with his erotically.

Tentatively, Christine rested her hands on his shoulders, feeling the dark sinew of his muscles moving beneath her.

Erik moved his hands down the plains of her body, coming to rest at her waist. He felt her move into his embrace slightly.

He drew back suddenly, looking into her face. Red splotches coloured her fair cheekbones and her eyes were wild and beseeching. He was most proud of her lips, swollen and still open in imitation of a kiss. She slowly lowered her arms from his shoulders and touched a hand to her lips in wonder.

He held her waist possessively, and said, "I can taste him on you. It's bitter."

Panic set into her as she realized what she had done. _Oh, god, if Raoul only knew_, her mind screamed. She turned her head away in shame, but her gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.

He touched her hair, delicately pushing away a strand that had come loose. "You look so beautiful when you are betraying someone who loves you," he murmured.

Anger swept through her and she pushed him. He stepped back lightly, and laughed without mirth, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Christine refused to look at his nude body, knowing if she did, she would not be able to say what she meant.

"Why so violent, Madame de Chagny?" he growled out. "The Christine I knew would know better."

"That Christine is gone," she spat wickedly. "She died the day she left you. I am no longer innocent to your ways, Erik, and know better than to fall for your tricks and manipulation. I am not a little girl whom you can mold and fool into trusting you." She stepped closer to him and a little part of her liked the look of thinly veiled surprise on his face. "You are not my Angel of Music anymore, Erik."

The look of steel in her eyes slackened Erik's tongue and he could not speak as she walked out of the room. He stood there for a moment, chewing her words over in his head. Settling back into the tub, he smiled a little_. Perhaps Christine would be harder to break than he had thought_. Even so, Erik relished this. He loved a challenge.

……………………………….

Once the door was closed behind her, Christine leaned back against it and lifted a trembling hand to her temple. Keeping a cool, steady head around Erik had drained her. She had lied; he did have the same effect on her as when she was sixteen, and it was just as hard to repel his charms. The only weapon she had was her memories. Just as she had hurt him without intention, so she knew exactly how to twist the knife intentionally.

In there, in his embrace, she had given in. It had been so easy, so frighteningly easy. His caress was not what she was used to and she bit her lip despairingly, for it thrilled her. He could say the harshest words and still she would soften at the sensual lilt of his low, smooth speaking voice. If he were to sing …

She walked to her room, he steps lacking the steadiness of before. It was now late, and her room lay in shadow. She stopped at the doorway and looked in, memories rushing back of the first night she had seen him. She had been young then and foolish. The memory of her father had left her in despair and, parentless, she had clung to the spirit of him.

A part of her had known that the voice that came to her in her dreams was not the spirit of her father, but she had been so desperate for shelter and comfort that she had believed it.

To be the only child without a parent had hit her hard and Christine thought now that she had not dealt with the repercussions of her pain. She did not speak for the first year that she lived at the Opera Populaire. Madame Giry had been as motherly as she could possibly be, but the truth was that she had her own daughter to raise. Christine loved Antoinette with a love similar to that of a child to a parent, but Christine knew the difference. Christine had watched as Antoinette stroked her daughter's hair absently or laid out her ballet shoes the night before a performance. In truth, Christine had been jealous of the small, innate gestures Madame Giry practiced for her daughter.

But Christine was grown now and a married woman. Her Phantom had been unmasked and her father laid to rest. She no longer saw them as one in the same, a thought that irked her now. Erik was not a father to her, this she knew. His manipulation of her preyed on her need for her dad, but even during their affair, she had come to know him as more than that. With Raoul in her life, she no longer looked for a man to shelter her, to _hide_ her.

She sighed, for now she knew that to be hidden was stifling.

She gazed around her room, taking in the familiarity of solitude that it promised. Her four-poster bed was rich cherry wood and swathed in a beautiful gold coverlet with a thin gauzy curtain falling overhead. Her pillows were gold, cranberry and earthy green with gold threading tiny flowers throughout the fabric. There was an armoire, reading desk and night tables, all made with the same beautiful wood. To the right was her vanity table, rich pearl and ruby surface making it glint in the moonlight and beside it a full-length mirror.

Absently, Christine released her hair from its pins and walked over to the mirror. She looked at her face, noting that a supple flush still reddened her cheeks. Her lips were bruised and she licked them gently.

Vaguely aware of what she was doing, she began to undress, watching as her dress fell from her shoulders to land in a soft hush at the floor. She slowly undid her corset until that too joined her discarded dress. She stepped out of it, kicking to the side. Her chemise followed suit and she stood naked before the mirror. She looked at her reflection, tilting her head to the side and running a hand between her breasts and down her stomach.

Her body was pale but still supple even without the rigors of the opera to keep her fit. Her curves had softened as a result. Christine liked this. She turned around to look at her back, strong and feminine, and her round buttocks. Her hair fell across her back; she shook it slightly, relishing in the feel of it on her skin. She thought of her hair bouncing wildly as she rode Erik, his hands on her thrashing hips, hers spread across his chest as they cried out their release.

Her hand had wandered to between her thighs and she wrenched it away once she realized what she was doing. Embarrassed, she went to the armoire and dressed quickly in her filmy silk night gown, getting under the covers in a rush. She did not say goodnight to Brigitte, as was her ritual, but fell quickly into a deep, troubled sleep.

……………………………….

Erik stepped out of the tub, reaching for the towel that had been left for him. He rubbed the towel along his hard body without thought and wrapped it around his waist. Rummaging through the bags Christine had left behind, he was surprised at what he found. The first bag contained a beautifully tailored black suit with tails lined with navy blue silk. A stark white dress shirt and cravat followed, as did glittering silver cufflinks. In the next bag was a pair of polished ebony shoes. He was stunned to see that it was his size.

The last bag contained a silk, navy blue dressing gown which he immediately put on. The soft kiss of silk on his clean body filled him with an ache. It had seemed like ages since he had felt anything but dirt, sweat and violence on his skin. Unbidden, a tear slid down his cheek and he wiped it away angrily.

_Fool_, he thought, _she does not mean anything by it but common courtesy. Do not fall apart at her charms._ _This was nothing more than a sign of her guilt_.

At this, Erik hardened himself again further emotion. He got up and strode to the bed as another wave of pain hit him. He knew he would be pulled under soon.

Climbing into bed, he rested his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. In the hours when he had been awake, he planned. From the moment he had seen her sleeping by his side, he had hated her. He felt deep shame at what she knew about him and what he'd suffered. He was angry at her still for leaving him. Worse than that, he could not steel his heart against her completely. When she had cried, he had felt the ice around his heart melt slightly and a familiar feeling of love crept into his soul.

No matter what he might tell himself, this girl still had an effect on him.

Erik would not allow himself to fall in love with her this time. Instead, she would be the victim. He knew she did not love him, but he had tested her anyhow. When he had pressed her against that wall and kissed her, she had responded. The flicker that she had perhaps wanted him returned. During their duet in "Don Juan Triumphant," he had felt it. Passion unyielding and unconsummated did not just go away, he reasoned. It built until it was satiated and sucked dry. He would satiate Christine, suck her soul from her just as she had from him.

Christine de Chagny would suffer more than she did now. He _would_ manipulate her once more, but this time he would not let her go. _No, this was for certain_. Raoul would be without a wife in a week's time.

With a bitter smile on his face, he fell back against the pillow and dreamed fitfully.

………………………………….

Christine was awakened by a shake on her shoulder. She turned around groggily to see her husband standing before her. Without a word, he was upon her, kissing her ardently. Shocked, Christine responded slowly, closing her eyes tightly. She felt him fumble with his clothes and soon he was naked. He took her clothes from her gently. Kissing down her neck, Christine threw her head back, he eyes still closed and her mouth in an O of enjoyment.

"Raoul," she gasped, clutching at his back as he kissed her breasts tenderly. She opened her eyes and gasped once again. Erik was looming before her, a dark smile on his face. He slipped the dressing gown from his body and stood before her with burning eyes that looked almost black in the darkness. He reached out a hand to her and she took it.

"Mine," he said, pulling her from Raoul. She turned to Raoul, seeing the confusion in his face as he rolled over to look at them both. Erik turned her face from Raoul and traced her lips with her thumb. Her tongue darted out, tasting the salt of his flesh. With one hand on her waist, he trailed the other down to her breast and cupped it gently. Christine tilted her head back and moaned quietly. As he ran his thumb against her nipple, she caught her breath and let out a soft, strangled cry.

"Erik."

"Yes, my love?" his voice was thick.

"Please," she groaned, a keening, guttural sound.

He walked her backwards until she fell against the bed. Raoul simply watched, his mouth agape, as Erik drew his body on top of her. Christine laced her legs around his waist, pushing his hips down. He took her lips then and thrust into her, swallowing her cry of pleasure. As he rocked against her, Christine turned her head and saw Raoul reaching for her. Rolling Erik so that she was on top of him, she gave him a parting kiss and slid off of his body.

Raoul took her then, her legs resting on his shoulders as he rode her gently. She locked eyes with Erik as Raoul made love to her and reached out to him once again. He clasped her hand, bringing it to his lips. He brought each finger to his sensual mouth, sucking the tips of each one reverently. He pulled her from Raoul, who lay back on the bed and watched as Erik stroked inside her. Sitting up, Erik pulled Christine into his lap and she rocked against him once more, throwing her head back as Erik's cock inside her moved her closer and closer to release.

Christine looked at Raoul as she came, screaming out Erik's name. She collapsed against Erik limply and he cradled her lovingly. They lay back, Christine wrapped in Erik's arms, facing him as she lay sweet, short kisses on his chest. He whispered his love for her.

She reached out a hand behind her, found Raoul's palm and clasped it tightly. He brought a hand to rest on her hip and whispered, "Christine, I love you." Christine felt something cold in her left hand.

She looked down and saw a smooth, serrated knife. She turned it over, fascinated by the shiny glint the cold steel threw into the night. Neither of the men reacted as she plunged the knife into her heart.

Christine screamed and awoke breathless. Her heart was beating frantically and sweat came out of her every pore, soaking her to the bone. Tears streaked her face as she trembled.

_It was just a dream._ Still, Christine could not quell her racing heart or her tears. She lay back against the pillow and pulled another to her body, wrapping herself around it. Forcing herself to calm down, Christine slowed her breathing. The gravity of what she had dreamt hit her and she began to sob quietly. For Erik, for Raoul, or for herself, she did not know.

She cried until no more tears would come and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	8. The Phantom

The Phantom

**A/N: Alright, this chapter is mostly about Erik's motivations with Christine, in the past, and now. I felt it was important to the story and I hope you appreciate how I've written his character. Don't forget to post a review and tell me what you think **

Christine awoke the next morning with the most uncomfortable stiffness in her neck. With a groan, she turned over only to see the afternoon light streaming through the bay windows. Christine rarely slept late so she was a little surprised when she met Brigitte downstairs in the kitchen and she chirped, "It's nearly lunch time! I haven't seen you sleep so late since the honeymoon."

Brigitte nudged her at this and said, "But that was for a completely different reason." She laughed uproariously and tottered back to the dining room table and continued to wipe its surface until it was glistening. Christine did not swat her playfully, feigning shock at Brigitte's familiarity, but grew rather warm in the face and clutched a hand protectively to her chest. If Brigitte had known the nature of her dream she could not be farther from the truth …

Christine forced out a small titter and turned around, busying herself with arranging flowers in vase.

Truthfully, Christine had awoken with the bitter cloud of her dream still hanging over her threateningly. Now as she mulled over it, she was both embarrassed and saddened by it. To dream of making love to another man as her husband had watched – it was too much for Christine to even contemplate. She had never heard of such a thing and to dream it was nearly unfathomable.

_Perhaps it had not been about the act of sex_, she mused. Was it possible that she wanted Erik? Furthermore, was she unsatisfied with Raoul? Even more depressing was the niggling that her selfish heart was not content with either or.

As a child, Christine had always had the most vivid and often disturbing dreams after her father died. Her shyness had drawn her further into herself and she often read to escape from her everyday life. Once, in the attics of the Opera Populaire, she had discovered a book of dream interpretations which had detailed the possibilities of what one's subconscious was trying to express during sleep. Much of the interpretations were rubbish, Christine had thought, but she had still clung to the belief that dreams meant _something_.

However, the part of her that loved Raoul was deeply ashamed of her betrayal, astral or no. If it were true that her mind was simply sorting out her innermost desires and hidden thoughts, what did that mean for them? And when she had, in her dream, stabbed herself in the heart she had felt as if she were drowning in despair. To have them both had filled her with sorrow at the same time as it as satisfied her. Ultimately it had not been right.

Christine shook her head, trying to rid the vividness of the dream and its implications from her mind. Maybe it did not mean anything at all, her mind supplied hopefully, but inside the words rang false.

"Oh, Christine?"

Brigitte's voice made her jump and immediately Christine felt as if she had been caught doing something unlawful. She turned to Brigitte and blathered quickly, "Yes, Brigitte? You frightened me a little. I am not myself today, forgive me.

"What were you going to say? I'm sorry, I keep babbling on but –" she sighed, forcing a tight smile at the look of confusion and worry on Brigitte's face. "Ah, yes, my dear, what is it?"

"It's the – it's Erik," she corrected herself quickly. "I brought him his breakfast and he requested to see you. He was very gruff, I might add. I told him that he should be more polite and he said I should learn to hold my tongue."

Christine chuckled genuinely, some of the gloom lifting from her slightly.

Brigitte faked hurt as she said, "You agree with him, do you? What a lousy friend you are," she teased.

Giggling slightly, she replied "No, it's just that it is just like Erik to speak so freely. I had forgotten." Christine became wistful for a moment, her eyes searching beyond the sunny walls of the summer house. With a tiny sigh, she turned back to Brigitte and smiled. "I guess I should be on my way to see Erik. I would not want him to pick on my tardiness as he did your tongue."

Brigitte had been slightly troubled by Christine's sudden reverie. For a moment, she had looked almost as if she were yearning for the past, a past without the horrors of murder and choice. Without thinking, she blurted out, "Christine, do you feel for him?"

Christine looked sharply at Brigitte, her mouth turning down slightly. "Brigitte! I am a married woman!"

"Oh, Christine, I'm silly! But you just –" she paused, sorting out what she wanted to say. "It's just that, I feel like there is something between you. Did you ever have love for him?"

"I certainly did not!" Christine sputtered, aghast that Brigitte had managed to cleave from her own discrepancies about what she felt for Erik. Was it that obvious that her feelings for Erik were questionable? "I just, I did care for him, of course. He was my teacher. He brought me music, he showed me things I had never dreamt to see. But he also did a lot of terrible things, Brigitte."

Her tone turned argumentative, almost as if she were trying to convince a jury of Erik's guilt. "He forced me to choose, he threatened to kill Raoul. And yes! He did do many wonderful things as well. He was just so adoring when he looked in my eyes, so fragile."

She broke off suddenly, tears coming to her eyes. Closing her eyes, she finished quietly, "It does not matter anymore. That is in the past and we have both moved on."

Brigitte was unconvinced by Christine's words, but backed off quickly. If simply talking about her feelings for Erik, platonic or not, would bring forth a deluge of emotion, it was not worth upsetting her simply to quench her own curiosity.

"I'm sorry, Christine, I did not mean to cause you pain."

Wiping her eyes, she laughed dryly. "It is not you, Brigitte. Many others have accused me of loving Erik and yet it never fails to incite emotion. I guess it is because of how we parted. How I hurt him." She straightened, arranging her skirts busily.

"I appreciate your honesty and do not hold that against you whatsoever." She walked over to Brigitte and put a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Never hold your tongue," she said wryly, "if only to spite Erik."

With that, she tramped upstairs, her heart quickening at the prospect of facing Erik after their last encounter. _Would he be angry?_ Christine was soon to find out.

…………………………

Erik stood up, enjoying in the way his new clothes fell against his body. The pants were a little tighter than he would have liked and the jacket was an inch short of what was proper, but otherwise, it all had fit delightfully. Again, he wondered at how Christine had managed to get such a close fit.

He walked toward the hanging mirror at the far side of the bedroom and surveyed his neatly polished attire. He look smart and dapper, a part of "the Phantom" partially restored under his black exterior. But it was his face which gave him away.

All the mystery and enigmatic sexuality he drew from being the phantom of the opera was not present without the mask to complete the picture. It was true that he hid beneath more than just the opera house.

In all the years dwelling in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, he had been a spectator and later, a spectre. _The opera ghost_, he snorted deprecatingly He had seen the elaborate sets, the elaborate coifs, the elaborate costumes. Everything, from the music to the audience, all were beautiful. Only the rich and finely attired ever stepped into the opera, and when they came, they dripped in diamonds, silk and lip rouge. When he had set the chandelier to come crashing down upon the audience, he had secretly delighted in the thought of eliminating the pretty guests below with a symbol of their sickening opulence.

Beauty. It was integral to the status of the Opera Populaire, and it was part of his attraction to Christine.

When he had found her as a child, crying out for her father, he had seen a part of himself in her. She was truly alone in the world. Her sadness, which she did not let anyone hear nor even voice the words of her despair, had touched him. He knew what it was like to be abandoned in this cruel world. He had wanted her to feel that she had a witness to her life. Selfishly, he had wanted her in _his_ life, no matter the barrier of walls and illusion between them.

_I did not want her to be alone_, he thought, _but neither did I want to be_.

Though she still would not speak, he had sung to her, encouraging her to raise her voice in song. Soon, she began to sing and Erik had watched as her voice grew in maturity. When she was sixteen, it came upon him suddenly that she was a woman. Therein lay the problem.

He laughed softly without mirth, cursing himself for the millionth time for allowing himself to fall for her. But it had been so easy to seduce her with his voice and to impress restrictions upon her to keep away anyone who should divert her attention from him. When he had come to her, dressed immaculately and guiding her with a confidence he, Erik, did not feel, he had come as the Phantom. Beneath the mask, the debonair clothes, the allure of music and the sensuality he had yet to explore, he had imposed his power over her.

She had not fought it until that boy came along. In his arms, he had felt her respond to him, the physical him beyond the ethereal voice which spoke to her in her dreams. Foolishly, he had wanted this woman, this child, to be content with the persona. Erik, the man under the mask, had frightened her. The look of horror on her face as she had pulled back his mask haunted him even now.

Without it, he felt like the same little boy whose mother had never loved because of his face.

A soft knock at the door awakened him from his trance and he frowned. Adopting a look of stern control, he strode to the door and opened it to reveal Christine standing before him.

"Christine," he said crisply, sweeping a hand toward the room, "Come in."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. Erik noted this and grinned. _So, she was still shaken from last night. Well, he would give her more reason to be._

She perched upon the couch, looking up at him with a mixture of expectation and foreboding. "What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?"

"I wanted to apologize."

Christine could not help from dropping her jaw in surprise. "You – what?"

He chuckled easily. "I wanted to apologize for last night," he said seriously. "You were right. You are not a child and I should not have treated you as such. I fear that old habits died hard," he finished dryly.

Christine was speechless. She knew she was gaping at him like a wall-eyed fish, but she could not help it. _Erik was apologizing? When had Erik ever apologized?_

"What is it? Do you find my words disingenuous?" His voice had a hardness to it that had not been present before. He needed Christine to believe him, for if she didn't, there was no way he could begin to gain her trust again. He needed her trust if he was to break her.

"No, no, not at all, Erik," she babbled quickly. "I just … I am surprised. You said such harsh things last night and I am afraid I took it to heart." She did not mention their kiss for she was still not able to think of it without blushing terribly.

"I know you are angry with me," she went on quietly. Meeting his eyes, she said, "I want you to know that I understand it. I understand _you_."

Anger flared within him but he did not let it show outwardly. Over the years, he had perfected denying his body the revelation of his emotions. So it was with disinterest that he said, "It is no matter. Please accept my sincerest apology. I do not mean to cause you hurt." Inside, he added,_ I mean to cause you much more than that._

Relief was evident on Christine's face and she touched a hand to her forehead, pulling away an errant strand of brown curls. Erik's mouth fell open slightly and he was lost in her beauty. That spark of innocence he had once fallen in love with flickered within for a moment and then was lost. Then it was gone and Erik's resolution return.

Since his return, Christine had noticed Erik's near refusal to show her the right side of his face. When they spoke, he always leaned to one side, leaving the marred cheek in shadow. It was obvious he was still uncomfortable without his mask to guard him and it arose empathy in her. His face did not frighten her, had long since bothered her at all. But still he hid from her.

Christine got up. "I will be back in a minute."

She hurried out the door and Erik seethed_. She understood him!_ Trifling, stupid Christine. She had no idea what it was to suffer as he had. For her to look him in the eye and tell him she understood his anger filled him with a rage that was nearly blinding. He balled his hands into fists and felt his nails bite into his flesh. _She still incites passion within you,_ a voice said.

"No, she only incites rage," he said out loud.

_You still love her_, his mind spoke.

"I will never love her again," he said through clenched teeth. Bringing a hand to his face, he leaned into it as he gripped the ravaged side. The emotions within him almost overwhelmed him and he wanted to cry out.

"Erik?" Christine's questioning voice forced Erik's back to become stiff again. He turned to her and saw that she held something white in her hands. As she drew closer, she held it out to him. It was his mask.

Shocked, he did not react right away and Christine took this as a sign of his disapproval. "Meg found it after – " she stopped, knowing she did not need to finish. "She gave it to me because she knew I wanted to have a part of you." She looked down.

"It is just that I noticed that you feel uncomfortable without it; you will not look at me head on. I want you to know that this – " she touched his scarred cheek tenderly, "does not frighten me. Please do not wear it for me. I only give this to you for when you wish to leave." She gulped suddenly, the reality of her words hitting her. The prospect of Erik leaving once more filled her with a strange sadness.

Belatedly, she noticed that her hand still lingered at his face. She drew back quickly, embarrassed at the tenderness his skin under hers incited within her.

Erik did not speak, simply took the mask from her hands. When she had touched him, he had felt as if he were back in his lair the first night he had taken Christine to his home. Only instead of ripping the mask from his face as she had once done, she was giving him the chance to put it back on. He knew her words were true; she had never looked at him with the same disgust as before. Her hand at his face had been so caring it had nearly choked him with emotion. But then she had wrenched it away. She could not bear to be close to such ugliness for long.

He stepped back and approached the mirror. His face betrayed none of the earlier emotion as he fitted it to him and became whole once more. He found her eyes in the mirror and said in a voice that was not his own, "Thank you, Christine." _Thank you, indeed._


	9. The Calm Before the Storm

**A/N: There is a reference to a certain movie starring Tom Cruise in this chapter. Before you all roll yours eyes, read it and see if you can spot it. I will give you all cookies and Don Juan masks as a reward.**

**Hugs and candy to my most amazing beta Agent Sculder who only had kind words for this chapter. R&R!**

The Calm Before the Storm 

The next morning dawned bright and sunny and Brigitte ached to be finished her household chores. As the only servant in the house, modest as it was, she still did have a lot on her plate everyday. Brigitte did not mind for she understood Christine's reasons. It also made her feel somewhat special to be picked out as the sole caretaker of a de Chagny estate.

Besides, Christine's friendship had become quite important to her. Brigitte had been thirteen when Christine had married into the de Chagnys and, a young woman herself, had instantly taken a liking to the beautiful former opera diva. Her humble attitude and warm laugh had made Brigitte at ease, a feeling that was not easy to obtain among nobles.

However, Brigitte had sensed an innate sadness within Christine beneath her façade. Also, the innocence that one would associate with a woman so young had seemed to peter out of her eyes long before. That and her nightly vigil had alerted Brigitte that Christine was something more than just a viscomte's wife.

Truth be told, Brigitte related to Christine on a base level. She too had grown up without a father, but she had been blessed in that her mother had taken care of her. _Perhaps taken care of was too strong a word,_ Brigitte mused. Her mother had been a drunk and a prostitute and had shopped Brigitte around as a maid so that Brigitte would not have to live the same life she had. Secretly, Brigitte had wondered if this was truly the reason or if Brigitte's existence in her mother's life had only hindered her.

Brigitte was ripped from her musings by a deep cough behind her. She turned around and her mouth fell open at what she saw before her.

There was Erik, the former Phantom, dressed impeccably in a midnight black suit, crisp white dress shirt and cravat and a porcelain mask that rivalled the pearlescent gleam of his teeth which were bared in a poor imitation of a smile. As Brigitte's eyes swept over him, she could not help but notice how lean and masculine he looked, from the tall intimidation of his height to the sculpted jaw which was strong and handsome. His eyes, which she had never noticed before, were a most peculiar green. Even his lips were sensuous, and Brigitte felt a slight blush creep up her neck. He was virtually unrecognizable from the poor, ravaged creature she had discovered only days before.

As he walked toward her, she was almost hypnotized by his panther-like grace. _So this was the man Christine had been entranced by_, Brigitte thought. It was not hard to see the allure.

"Mademoiselle Brigitte, is it?"

His voice took her by surprise as well, although it shouldn't have, given the way Christine have spoken of him. Low and lilting, he spoke as if he were thinking of something far away yet still, it captivated her attention.

"Yes, monsieur," she curtsied clumsily. "My, you are looking rather well. A vast improvement from that cage."

Shadow fell over Erik's features at the mention of his entrapment, but soon was replaced by a devilish grin. "Is that right, Brigitte?" He said her name as if tasting the way it rolled over his tongue.

Slightly bewildered by his familiar tone, but excited nonetheless, she nodded happily. "Oh, yes. I daresay you look handsome."

Erik studied her in silence for a moment and then closed the distance between them. Brigitte felt a sharp intake of breath at his approach; she did not know if it was from fright or something else. He reached out, his hand coming closer and closer to her face. Brigitte shut her eyes tightly.

When he did not touch her, she opened her eyes warily and saw a long pink rose. He held the beautiful flower in his hand, an impish smirk beguiling his face. Immediately, she felt embarrassed. The story of the Phantom had aroused in her foolish implications of Erik's character.

Erik extended the rose to her, speaking quietly. "A pretty rose for a pretty girl."

She took the rose and found herself apt to stutter, which was unlike her. "Th-thank you, monsieur –"

"Please," he held up a hand. "Call me Erik."

"Thank you – Erik," she finished dubiously. "I had thought you quite cross with me for my loose tongue. Christine always says that it will get me in trouble one day."

Erik stared at her hard and Brigette nearly wilted. She thought she had understood this man, who was _not_ an opera ghost of gossip and fantasy.

"It already has," he spoke, a sharpness underlying his words that rivalled even the most deadly blade. "I do not give this to you as a token of my undying appreciation for your so-called rescue of me," he said sarcastically. "You should know better than to meddle, little girl, lest you find yourself at the deadly end of a noose."

His words left the kitchen ringing. Brigitte shook her head. "But, Erik, you would have preferred to have stayed there? In that horrible circumstance?"

Erik's lips drew into a smile. He liked the audacity of this girl. She was not so easily frightened by threats, empty as they may be. Perhaps she had been on the receiving end of many before him. "Comparing that prison of squalor and sin to her is much like choosing the lesser of two evils. Should I burn in hell in this fiery ocean or that one?"

Brigitte furrowed her brow. "You are awfully dramatic, Erik."

Erik surprised both of them by laughing out loud. It was a strange sound coming from so severe a man, but Brigitte allowed herself to giggle as well. "And you are impetuous, Brigitte. I am afraid I encourage such behaviour." He leaned forward, his eyes softening slightly. "And what does Vicomte de Chagny think of you?"

Brigitte leaned forward as well as if sharing a secret. "He does not think much of me at all, I am afraid."

Erik's eyes crinkled slightly and he chuckled, a hollow sound. "That boy never did have much of a sense of humour."

Erik became grim and his tone returned to that of aloof business. "Where is Christine?"

Brigitte was not bothered by Erik's sudden shift of emotion. She was getting used to the whirlwind that was this enigmatic and strangely endearing man. "She is out in the backyard maze, at the centre. There is a pond that she likes to sit at and – well, I am not sure what she does there. Perhaps you should not disturb her."

Erik eyed her rakishly and Brigitte knew asking anything of the Phantom, nay, Erik, was fruitless. She sighed a little, and resolved, "Would you like me to lead you there? The maze can be quite confusing."

"No," he replied shortly.

"Are you sure?"

"Brigitte," he said through gritted teeth, "if you are to learn anything, it is to cease questioning me, for you will find yourself out of my favour as a result. " Taking her hand and examining it as if it were a relic, he finished softly, "You would not want that. For Christine's sake."

"No," she quavered. "Madame de Chagny deserves her happiness, as do you."

Erik dropped her hand and nodded stiffly. He left without responding.

Once out in the sunshine, Erik almost stalled his confident amble. He had never been outside, the sun beating down on him, as a free man. The gravity of this realization almost made his knees buckle but he walked on, determined.

The maze was not hard to navigate, as least for Erik. Erik had lived most his life through books and had discovered that the secret to cracking most labyrinths was to keep one's left hand on the wall and follow it. Seeing as this was a simply constructed maze, Erik had no trouble reaching its hub.

The sight before him nearly took his breath away. He had always read, _in romance novels_, he thought derisively, of a man seeing a woman so beautiful that it made him breathless. He thought this was ridiculous conjecture, something writers said to weave romantic ideology around their characters. _It sounds nice_.

But there she was, stealing air from his lungs.

He had always seen Christine in darkness. Once, he had seen her outdoors but it had been winter and the sunlight had been bleak at best.

Sitting on a bench, her skirts curled around her and a book perched in her hands, she was the picture of perfection, at least to Erik. Her hair was swept away from her face, falling behind her in a tumble of reckless curls. She was poised in thoughtful repose, her delicate features looking even more angelic among the bright ambience of the sun. But she did not look like a girl anymore, he realized suddenly. Perhaps it was the hardening of her brow or the knowing curve of her lips. _Her eyes, her eyes_.

She was not the girl he had once held under his spell and yet he found he adored her with all of his heart.

A cardinal took flight and swept upwards in a flurry of feathers. Christine looked up in surprise and saw Erik silhouetted among the greenery.

"Oh," was all she could say.

Firming his slack lips, he walked towards her, again taking on the air of bored nonchalance. He steeled his heart, for her reflexive look of shock had made her even more beautiful. He did not wish to show her that she could affect him so.

"May I sit with you?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"It is lovely." Erik said this as if he were running through a shopping list.

"Yes."

He turns to her, looking upon her curiously. "No. It is beautiful."

Christine blushed.

They did not speak for a while, the silence between them as uncomfortable as it was comforting. The buzz of insects and soft lapping of water created a beautiful harmony that made Erik's mouth dry. The clearing was not large, but a comfortable size that allowed for a good-size pond. He could see flashes of orange and grey in the water as fish swam about lazily. The entire space was bedecked with small gardens of roses, petunias, impatiens, carnations, daffocdils – more flowers than Erik could name. Lilies rose out of the pond. Bees buzzed and the wind whistled. It was perfect.

He tried not to admire it so but it was difficult. He could not look at Christine or he feared he would break.

Finally, he spoke. "Does he make you happy?"

Flustered, Christine could not find words to speak. She yearned to tell him all that she felt, and found that it was hard to resist the urge. Something about this man made her honesty flow as freely as water.

"After we were married," she began, unsure at first, "We tried for a baby many times." She blushed at the thought that she was telling Erik about making love. "But it would not happen. After several months, I was finally with child and I was so happy. I felt it would complete us to have a child, the physical realization of our love.

"And the de Chagnys would be happy to have an heir," she added, almost as an afterthought. Erik thought her tone to be bittersweet.

"One night, I was feeling quite ill and retired to my room. I tossed and turned until I could feign sleep no more and got up to get a drink of water. I walked downstairs and slipped on the stairway. The way that I landed was such that – " She sucked in her breath, willing steadiness into her voice. "I lost it. Him, her, I don't know. I lost my baby." She did not cry and the dullness with which she said it shook Erik.

"I am sorry." He was.

"Thank you." She took his hand without glancing down. "Raoul was understanding and so caring. I could not ask for more." She felt his grip tighten slightly. Christine did not tell him that they had not made love since for she cannot bear the thought of losing another child.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Let's not tell our sad stories."

Another silence, as they are the stars of each other's own tragedies.

Again he asks, "Are you happy?"

Christine burst into tears and said to him, "Yes. I am overjoyed." Her face is a stark contrast to her words.

Without thinking, he pressed a hand to her face to feel the acquaintance of her tears. She leaned into his hand, and kissed his palm.

This woman was breaking his heart once again and Erik felt his resolve slipping away. She released his hand and he withdrew.

Erik stood and offered his arm to her without a word, rigid tension lining every part of his body. They walked back to the house, the crickets making music all around the. No more words fell from each others lips.


	10. The Letters

The Letters 

**A/N: Somebody mentioned Jerry Maguire, and yes, I did rip a line from there. "Let's not tell our sad stories." Why? Because because because – because of the wonderful things he does dahdadadadadaduh**

**Sorry for updating so late, I know some of you were used to the everyday updates but school intervened. Boo! OK, guys, this chapter is most definitely R (I love saying that) but please don't hate me when you get to the end of it. It's not looking good (for now).**

**Shout-out to my beta Agent Sculder because of the tongue clip. Oh, yes. That one.**

Erik and Christine returned to the summerhouse, arm in arm. Once inside, Erik begged off, citing tiredness and a headache.

"Are you alright? What pains you?" Christine asked.

Erik studied her, noting the genuine concern in her voice. He smiled grimly. "I will be fine. Do not worry your pretty little head about me."

Christine frowned slightly at his sharp tone, but dismissed it as Erik being Erik. He leaned forward, pressing his face close to hers. She felt him inhale the scent of her hair and shuddered slightly.

"When I awake, I want to see you. Come to me."

He drew back and Christine stared, swallowing suddenly and noting the dryness of her mouth. She looked away, forcing a stoic nonchalance into her words. "If you wish."

She was embarrassed that she had been so open with him. It was as if she was stripped bare before this man. She was still unsure of his intentions; he was so frustratingly inconstant. He lathed the pain he instilled on her with the most excruciating pleasure.

His tenderness in the maze had bewildered her, bringing tears to her eyes. She had long since steeled herself against the onslaught of emotions that bringing up her poor dead baby brought. But his silent understanding and simple question had unhinged her.

_Are you happy? _

It was so simple, three short words, a yes or no. But those four syllables had made her question herself. Was she happy? Was this not what happiness was? To be married to a man who adored her, live with all the refinements of bourgeoisie culture, to be close to Brigitte, whom she regarded as a sister. Was it not enough for her to have these things, things she had never before even imagined of obtaining?

_Are you happy?_

How she wanted to be.

Christine turned from him, adding over her shoulder, "I will be on the veranda if you need me."

A fluttering sound at the front door halted Christine. _The mail was here!_

"Erik, would you mind getting the mail for me?"

For a moment, she caught a flash of something in his eyes but it was gone before she could be sure of its origin.

"Of course, my dear."

_Word from Raoul_, she thought. Oddly, this did not excite her as it normally would. Instead, she felt as if she were a child awaiting its parent's punishment.

He returned with a sleek yellow envelopment. Right away, Christine saw that it did not bear the de Chagny crest and sighed. She took the envelope from him with a soft "thank you" and shook away the niggling feeling of guilt at her unseemly response.

She opened the envelope and brightened when she saw that the letter was from Meg Giry. She looked up excitedly to tell Erik of her comrade's whereabouts but found he had vanished.

"The mysterious O.G. is back, I see," she uttered sarcastically under her breath. _Old habits die hard._

Brigitte popped into the hallway, delighted to see that the color had returned to Christine's cheeks. "News from the Viscomte?"

"No," she said quickly, "it is from Meg."

Brigitte gave a knowing "Ah," and offered to fetch Christine a cup of tea, which Christine accepted gratefully.

Christine settled on the veranda where she had intended to crochet and opened the letter, sipping her tea contentedly.

_Dear Christine,_

_I hope you are well, for I have wonderful news. I've been cast at the Paris Opera in the corps de ballet! The managers (not Andre and Firmin, thank the Lord) have begun casting for the new season to begin this winter and continue on through summer. The first play will be "Aida" – I know what you're thinking but it is a very popular play._

_I am so excited and cannot wait for you to visit once the plays are in progress. The managers seem to think that the opera house will be even more popular now that it is the replacement for the Opera Populaire and is associated with the Phantom of the Opera. They even keep Box Five open, hoping to draw a greater audience. Brilliant marketing strategy, they said. Rubbish, I say._

_I hope things are good and look forward to your response._

_Always,_

_Meg_

Christine closed the letter, breathing out deeply. Had Erik not re-entered her life days before, she might have been shocked at the flood of memories Meg's letter would incite. Instead, she was somewhat still. Anything and everything to do with the Opera Populaire had been revisited in the past few days.

She looked out into the distance, peace settling around her. She did not have to look back at him today – he was already there.

…………………………………………….

Hours later when Brigitte had prepared dinner, Christine went to Erik's door. He did not hesitate to join them and it seemed his earlier gloom had lifted.

Brigitte had prepared a wonderful roast with red wine, baguettes and cheese for appetizers. Once seated at the dinner table, an awkward silence fell around them. Brigitte, of course, was the first to initiate conversation.

"So, Erik," she began between mouthfuls of bread and cheese, "What was it like in the opera house?"

Christine stiffened immediately and cut her eyes at Brigitte in a warning glance. Brigitte ignored her. Erik licked his lips of lingering droplets of wine, a motion that made Christine stare dumbly, and said, "Christine had not told you?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Brigittie blathered. "Christine and I are close as can be." Christine closed her eyes in mock despair, mentally slapping herself for not briefing Brigitte on proper dinner conversation with Erik.

Erik gave a Cheshire grin. "Is that so?"

"Uh huh," she hummed, "Like sisters."

"I had thought so," he replied.

Forcing a wan smile, Christine replied, "Brigitte, did I ever tell you about when Meg and I were trapped in the opera attic for an entire night?" Off Christine went, stretching the simple story to epic proportions and drawing giggles and disbelief from Brigitte throughout. Erik said nothing as he ate, watching coolly as Christine went about her tale.

"And Sorelli found you two dressed in those costumes? Oh, that is hysterical, Christine! You were quite the troublemaker," Brigitte laughed.

"Yes, she was," Erik said, the words rolling languorously over his tongue. He locked eyes with Christine and silence once again fell over the table. Christine found it hard to breathe.

Abruptly, Erik got up and bowed in an exaggerated yet honest manner.

"I thank you two wonderful ladies for a most sumptuous dinner. If you will excuse me, I must get something for our dear Brigitte." He stepped out of the room gracefully, leaving Brigitte and Christine looked at one another quizzically.

Erik returned with a thick, cream-colored envelope and held it out to Brigitte. She reached for it, but he snatched it away, an infuriatingly boyish grin on his face. Christine blushed thinking of how charming he looked right there and then. Brigitte rolled her eyes.

"Give this to the stable boy. Inside are instructions telling him where to go and what to do once he is there."

"Where is he to go, Erik?" Christine asked.

"That, I cannot tell you. I will say that he is to fetch a contact of mine who will be able to deliver a portion of my savings to this address so that I will no longer have to depend on your kindness." He looked at her seriously then, his voice dropping slightly. "I have appreciated all that you have done for me, Christine."

He had not deliberately said her name without formality or mocking since she had brought him here. _Perhaps he did not hate her so_. She lowered her eyelashes and nodded.

He turned to Brigitte, handing her the envelope. She took hold of it warily and tugged, but Erik would not let go. "Inside is the address and no one is to see it but the stable boy." His voice became feral once again. "Am I understood?"

Brigitte suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and tugged on the envelope once more. It came free and the force of her tug sent her backwards. Huffily, she marched from the room, muttering under her breath. Christine laughed into her hands, her eyes closed. When she opened them, he was gone.

She found him in his room as he had requested of her earlier. He had taken off his suit jacket and cufflinks. The collar of his shirt was slightly open and the sleeves were rolled up his forearms. Closing the door behind her and dusting off her shirt sleeves, she murmured, "You really must cease and desist the disappearing act, Erik. It is not – " She was stopped by his sudden appearance at her side. Looking into green eyes that burned, she breathed, "Attractive."

His lips were upon hers in an instant and, this time, she did not resist. Winding her hands through his hair, she pulled him close to her, closer than she thought was possible while still clothed. Forcefully, he pushed her up against the wall, pulling her legs up to wrap around his taut abdomen. Her skirts were bunched around her; Erik pushed them aside. He was at her neck, spreading searing kisses down to her collarbone. He nipped her shoulder and she moaned.

Christine was on fire. His hands were everywhere at once, cupping her breasts, digging into her hips, grasping her firm ass, all with a passion that startled her as much as it aroused her. His kiss, _oh God, his kiss_. It was at once forceful as it was tender. His probing tongue mimicked the thrust of his hips grinding into her core. Immediately, Christine was wet and hot, aching for him. There were too many layers between them. _This was wrong, this was horribly wrong!_

"Oh, God, Erik, stop."

He pulled away from her, seeing the guilty stream of tears ebbing in her eyes. Cursing under his breath, he lowered her to her feet and turned away, a hand at his temple. He would not look at her. His frame was stone.

"I'm sorry, but I – I am confused." Finding her bearings, she went on, "And I am married. You cannot just come into my life and ask me to –"

"_I_ came into you life? _I_ did?" He grasped her shoulders, shaking her hard as his anger built. "I did not ask you to 'rescue' me," he roared. "I did not ask you to break me free of that hell just to satisfy your guilt! And that is all it is, Christine, you pitiless, pious wench! You are nothing but a slave to your inconstant conscience, your inconstant heart!" His voice broke and he finished quietly, "Damn you and your inconstant heart." He broke away from her bitterly, staring into her eyes as they both shook from the force of his words.

"Yes," she began, her voice vibrating unsteadily, growing high in her emotional state. "Yes, I am guilty. Yes, I am sorry for what I did to you. I was naïve and young, but you! You have no right, no goddamn right to put the blame solely on my shoulders." Christine very rarely cursed; they were both shocked by her words.

"I was a girl, a _girl_, Erik! I did not understand what I was feeling for you." She stopped, trying to gain control. "And then Brigitte saw you and wanted me to help. She always wants to save the world, she's so innocent." She broke off, the tears beginning again. _Had there been a day since she'd found him that a river did not flow down her cheeks?_

"You are not innocent anymore, Christine." He grasped her waist viciously, pulling her toward him. She was very aware of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. "Feel me," he whispered into her ear. "Do not deny me again."

Christine shuddered from the hint of threat in his voice. Pressing her hands to his waist, she pushed away from him slightly. She looked down at her hands.

"I saw that man, what he did to you."

Abruptly, Erik turned away. "Don't, Christine."

"I killed him," she said simply. "I shot him and I did not feel regret. I still do not." She walked toward him and gave him her hands. They both stared at her long fingers, milky white palms.

He kissed her, a keening need in his moans as he laved her tongue with his own. He needed her, needed this now. The shock of what she had done for him was too much. Desperately, he sought her mouth and her touch. _Make it go away_, he thought.

They union grew more and more desperate, and Erik frantically fought with the hooks of her dress. It was off in a hush of sound. She stood wound around him in her chemise and corset.

Erik violently tore himself from her embrace and their eyes met for a moment. He turned her around with her back to him. Confusion flickered in Christine's face but then she was drawn into his arms as he kissed her neck, starving for her touch. He undid the ties of her corset, her back still to him, his lips still on her neck. She clutched his neck with one hand, the other at her chest. Finally, she was free of the corset and he whirled her around, but she averted his grasp.

She looked at him then and his heart beat inconstantly. He saw shyness and reserve. He saw sacrifice as she slowly slid her chemise from her shoulders. She was naked before him and her eyes pled for forgiveness. It was not enough.

He wrested her to him sharply, groaning as her nude body brushed against his cock. He tried not to look at her in wonder, tried to disguise the inexperience of his questing hands. She undid his shirt buttons, tossing the shirt aside and he held her close as her warm mouth kissed his skin.

She trailed kisses along his chest with the same wonder Erik was trying to hide. Her lips closed over his nipple and he hissed.

"Now. I need you now."

She slid his pants down quickly and he walked her backwards to the bed. They fell in a tangle of limbs. He looked at her then and Christine swore she could see love. Before she could respond, his kissed her hard and long until she could not breath. The world grew dark and she gripped his back, leaving angry red scratches in her wake. He released her lips then and she gulped the air in a shuddering breath. Stars burst before her eyes and she did not care. She cared only for his body on hers and his mouth stealing her breath.

Erik made his slow torturous descent down her body, kissing, sucking and nipping at her flesh until she was practically sobbing for him. His hands were at her hips now, driving her crazy. His mouth closed around her nipple and Christine cried out as he suckled at her breast and delved his fingers into her depths.

Without warning, he flipped her around so that she lay on her front. Erik held her hands at her sides and spread her legs with his knees. She looked wonderful, entrapped like that.

"Erik, what are you – " He ended her bewildered plea as he thrust into her. She was hot, insufferably hot and slick, and Erik nearly lost control of himself inside her. This was what it was like to be inside a woman. It was heaven and hell, fire and wet flesh all at the same time. He sucked in his breath, steadying himself until he was sure he could go on.

Christine bit her lip to keep from crying out. Raoul had never had her in this way. It was foreign and debauched to her. _He was still angry. Would he always be angry? _Her thoughts only made her more receptive to his touch.

Releasing her hands, he grasped her hips firmly, digging his fingers into her ass. He could not see her face as he rode her but her steady moans urged him on. He looked at her then, her body thrown helplessly under him, her hands gripping the mattress and her hair obscuring her features. She was powerless, utterly succumbed to him. He enjoyed it, felt a sick pleasure from it. _Just like him_.

His stopped then and withdrew. Shaking slightly, he turned her around. Tears threatened to fall on her face. He was angry, so furious at himself, at her, _at him_.

She looked at him with fear and something close to adoration as she stroked his hair. She ran her hands along his scarred back and she understood his punishment of her body.

He pulled her legs up around him and entered her gently this time. They rocked together, the only sounds now were their sighs and moans. He had found her eyes and refused to lose them.

"Ask me," he rasped, close to release, "ask my forgiveness."

"Forgive me, Erik." Her voice was as sensuous as it was pleading.

"Forgive me, say it," he demanded.

"Forgive me, forgive me, oh God, please," she sobbed out, reaching her release. He fell into the stratosphere with her, black and whirling and weightless.

The sound of their laboured breathing was deafening. He rolled off of her almost immediately. Christine clutched the tangled sheets to her chest. They did not speak.

…………………………………….

Brigitte was humming quietly to herself as she washed the dishes. It had been two hours since she had last seen Christine. Perhaps she had gone to bed early. _With the Phantom_, she thought wryly.

She laughed at her own joke under her breath. Frankly, she did not think much of the poor git; he'd been annoying and not at all charming, like she was sure Christine must think of him as.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her glee and she hurried forward. Jacques had come to check up on them, she was sure.

She unlocked the door and swung it open, shouting out, "We're alright, Jacques, no need for concern." The last word died on her lips.

Two members of the Prefecture of Police stood before her. They were dressed in navy uniforms bedecked with red tassels on the shoulders and a crisp white shirt and tie. They wore rimmed caps and the stern looking gentlemen to Brigitte's right had a shiny badge pinned to his lapel. His hair was grey under his cap and his moustache black over his frowning thin lips.

"Are you Mme. Christine de Chagny?"


	11. The Attrition

The Attrition

**A/N: I am sorry for the delay, but I had two essays due this week and an exam Thursday so I didn't have time for "Talk of Summertime." Boo I hope you all will forgive me for the wait and enjoy this new chapter. I expect another one will be upped tomorrow.**

**Thank you all for your continued support and to Agent Sculder who is the bestest beta who ever beta'd.**

Erik lay beside Christine in a turmoil of his own making. This had been what he wanted: to take her, make her give herself to him to atone for her denial of him four years ago. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to make her betray her husband. It was a laconic irony that tasted bittersweet.

In the hub of the maze, he had looked at her as a free man and felt his resolve shatter. The intensity of that moment had been more than Erik could bear. He felt it best to simply play the pauper and pretend he fit in a world he never had before. Her tears, however, had almost undone him.

Sometimes he loved to be the cause of her tears, pleasured in the hurt he felt being reflected in her eyes. Perhaps if he had not been trapped in that gypsy camp for the previous four years his feelings for her, hate or love, would have waned. But he would never know now; all he had was now.

That she had lost a baby to the man she had betrayed Erik with did not fill him with the delight he would have expected. He had squeezed her palm, communicating the compassion he had for her. _Goddamn compassion_, Erik thought. Her lips at his palm had scratched away at the gate he had erected between them, fiddling with the lock until it popped open. Her shadow had fallen in. _Unwanted, unwanted. _

And then her words: _"I saw that man, what he did to you."_ Up until that point, he had been able to ignore the reality of his rape. When he had been in that cage and been the victim of that man's sick deception he had been able to withdraw into himself. It was not happening. If he acknowledged it, it was simply a by-product of his sins. Erik deserved punishment; he had been told this all his life and nothing had dissuaded him of this knowledge. But to know that Christine, the only living being who had ever been able to elicit this foreign emotion of _love_ from him, had witnessed his shame was almost unbearable.

What he had known of sex up until that point had been shame and punishment. He had never touched a woman, never felt her from the inside. When he had discovered Christine as a woman and not a child, he had felt his arousal pressing against his pants in a most uncomfortable way. More times than he cared to admit, he had stroked himself to completion standing before the two-way mirror in her dressing room, watching as she bathed, undressed, brushed her hair or simply sang. Always after he felt ashamed and had sought the solace of creating his music to quell the disturbance of his thoughts.

Then he had experienced sexual abuse by a man so vile Erik's stomach turned just thinking of his hot, fetid breath on his neck as he plunged himself into Erik over and over. He had long ago convinced himself he deserved it but Christine's admission had made him feel, something he had forced himself to disassociate with during his imprisonment. He had wanted to disappear, wanted to fall into an endless sleep of blessed dreamlessness. Tears stung his eyes and he balled his fists. God, he wanted to kill this man.

Christine had, though. The shock of what she'd done had shaken him. It had all been too much and he had forgotten his plans of seducing her completely. She had offered her hands to him and he had taken her, all the viciousness and pain and anger that he felt he expelled into her willing body. _To forget, to forget, what blessed longing_. _What a gift_. He wished he could forget her, forget the gypsy, forget everything he had endured. Sliding inside her hot depths, he had been struck by the overwhelming flood of feeling, physical and emotional, that being one with her had created. It was with wonder at first that he thrust into her.

But to see her trapped the way he had been trapped had taken him aback. He had not meant to bestow to her the curse he'd been given but it had overtaken him. Blinded with lust and something akin to fury, he had drove his cock into her, her hands cuffed and her face in the pillows. He had looked at her, her back strained and her ass propped up below him and something in him had snapped. He was monstrous and for a moment he had felt even he could not be this cruel to her. Not to her.

Why had she accepted him, her arms slung loosely around his shoulders, tracing circles lovingly along his back? Her legs around his waist had been gentle, guiding him to her entrance and her eyes – she had understood. He had fucked her slowly then, their earlier pace of frantic desperation obsolete. He had not found love in her eyes, nor did he feel it. She had looked at him with something akin to wonder and caring. _Yes, there had been caring. _ Strangely, he had felt peace there inside her. There was nothing seductive about their union; it was simply an absolution.

She had asked him to forgive her at his urging. He believed her. Her words, words that he had drawn out of her, filled him with hot synergy and he came, shuddering and filled and empty at the same time. He had felt her walls flutter around his cock delicately; it was wonderfully excruciating bliss. Momentary bliss, for right away, he became stolid. That she had yielded to him and begged his forgiveness had made her weak and so it made him strong.

A loud banging on the front made Christine jump. _Calm down,_ she reasoned. _It must be Jacques_.

Much to Christine's surprise, Erik got up and began dressing hastily. Before she could speak, he held up a hand.

"Ah," he said coldly, "That would be the police."

Christine looked at him, puzzled, the creamy sheets curled around her small frame. She looked so fragile, despite her mussed hair and flushed skin. Despite the smell of sex in the air that still lingered.

"Christine!" Brigitte's voice came from downstairs. She was panicked.

"What is – Brigitte!" Christine called out, gathering the sheets around her and attempting to scramble to her feet. Erik's hand stayed her.

Erik had not allowed her to remove his mask during their union, and it was fitting that he wore it now. Even as his plans were unwinding, he did not feel the joy he had anticipated.

Christine batted blindly at his hand. "What is happening? The police are here? For what? How do you know?" Her voice rose as her fear grew. _He would not answer her, why wouldn't he answer her?_ "Oh God, Erik, what have you done?"

He tucked his shirt in roughly, refusing to acknowledge the desperation in her tone. Throwing his jacket on, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an opened envelope. Before she opened it she knew.

"Is he – ?"

"Tomorrow. As much as I would like to stay and play Hephaestus to your Aphrodite, I'm afraid I have more pressing matters at hand. As do you."

Christine was laughing uncontrollably, tears spilling down her cheeks. She looked like a wild caricature of herself. "You," she sputtered through fits of hiccups and giggles, "Y-You planned this?"

"Christine!" Brigitte's voice echoed from far away. Christine got to her feet, still chuckling madly, and ran to the bay window. There was Brigitte being hauled away by two men in uniform. As Brigitte's silhouette became smaller and smaller, Christine sobered. She turned to Erik then and he stood there, frown lines deepening the soft wrinkles in his face. Suddenly, he looked old.

"But we …" Her voice trailed off and she stalked toward him, rage pulling her to him like a pendulum. Holding her sheets to her body with one hand, she clutched the other to his cravat and tugged harshly. "You touched my face. In the maze – you touched my face." Her face crumpled and she was a child once more. Erik turned his face from her, tears stinging his eyes.

It was too late; it was done.

Straightening, he took her clenched hand in his own and firmly extricated her grasp. She brought her hand to her face, tears immediately staining her palm. "Oh, god, I did this." She was not talking to Erik now and her incoherent mumblings unsettled him. She flung herself at him again, the sheets forgotten and beat his chest with her fists, not caring that she was nude in from of him.

"Tell me what you did! Tell me what you did, tell me what you did," she shouted over and over again, bereft and shaken. Erik gripped her shoulders and he stared at her staidly. His face did not betray his emotions. He held her shaking shoulders, her head lolling slightly as she pled. "Tell me, tell me," she whispered.

He sat her on the bed, his lips remaining stiff and his eyes cloudy as he crouched in front of her. She looked at him and saw that he was trying. Without a word, he took her discarded sheets and wrapped her shivering frame with the creamy shroud. She stared at him now, her doe eyes as sorrowful as they were angry. He coughed, trying to bring the reserve back into his voice. _God, if he stuttered, if his voice broke –_

"Brigitte is under arrest, Christine. I had the stable boy deliver a letter to the police stating that she had stolen. It was signed in your name and bore the de Chagny stamp."

Erik flung Christine's discarded clothes at her. "Here, you should put these on," he said disdainfully.

Christine's head fell limply into her hands and she swayed slightly. Gulping in air needlessly, she did not look at him as she said "And what do you plan to do with me."

She was cold to him now and her rejection startled him. He snarled, curling his lip in hateful reproach. _Would she not at least give him her fear? Would she at least give him emotion?_ This stoniness could not give Erik the control he needed to take her, to run away with her. He got up abruptly, pacing back and forth in the room.

"Do you not care?"

She shook her head, still refusing to meet his eye. "You will do what you like and no one will stop you." She sounded dead to him, so was the dull pallor of her voice. "You are merely a child, Erik."

Stunned, he raged on. "And what of Raoul? And you? Do you not care what happens to either of you? Am I not just your plaything, a creature of pity that harbours your guilt?" He stood before her, his fists curled and his voice reverberating. "Say you hate me."

His words shocked them both. No, he had not planned this. But suddenly the need to have her overwhelmed him and he did not care that he was vulnerable to her. He could abide her tears and her scorn, her joy even. She could not dare to stand before him and not _feel something_ for him.

She would not reply.

He looked down, growing frustrated. He eyed her belly. Softly, he murmured, "My bastard could be growing inside you right now. Say it now."

Her eyes filled with tears once again and her lip quivered, but still she would not speak.

"I have forced you to betray your husband. Brigitte will spend the night in jail. Who knows what will happen to her pretty little bottom." He leered at her. "The nights get awfully lonesome in jail. A man is bound to need some comfort."

Christine stared ahead, far away.

"Why won't you give me what I ask!" He roared, stumbling toward her, grasping her shoulders and pushing her onto the bed. Tears rolled down her eyes, but she would not look at him. His weight on top of hers was crushing; she could hardly breathe. "I am disgusting," he spat. His face was wet now, and little trails of spittle ran down his lips. He was wracked with pain. "I am pitiful, I am guilty, a murderous vile thing," he shouted at her and wet her face with his tears and droplets of saliva that sprang from his furious lips. Shaking her hard, he barked, "I deserve your hate. _Tell me I am hateful_."

Still, she would not give him her eyes. Disgusted with himself, he rolled off of her, cursing his innate evil. _This had not been the plan, this had _not_ been the plan_.

Christine shook her head sadly. Her face had not been dry in days. She dressed in silence and then faced him. "When will you learn that you cannot hold my salvation over my head to earn my love."

It was not a question, but a dull statement.

"You are not a monster, Erik," she stated, her lips still quavering, as she buttoned the front of her dress. Her hands stilled and she looked at him once more. His hair was dishevelled and he was breathing hard. "I do not know why you want me to deem you as such. I only see a man."

She tried to touch him, but he wrenched her hand away. He could not believe that they were back here again. Desperately, he grasped her to his body, feeling her wooden frame melt slightly in his arms. He let himself cry into her neck a little, let himself feel comfort a little.

_This man makes me come undone_, Christine mused sadly. _Why do I feel such softness in his arms …_

With a start, she realized that she cared for him deeply.

_Why does she do this to me_, Erik thought, his mind a maelstrom of emotion. He had wanted to hurt her and yet he was in her arms, loving her. _God, he loved her!_ To hurt her was to hurt himself. He rocked her gently, his tears caught in her brown hair, glistening.

He pulled away, did not look at her and left. Christine slumped to the floor but she did not cry. She wanted to tell him to come back but there was not anything left in her.

…………………………………

Erik raced off into the night, unmercifully digging his heels into his mount's sides. He had stolen one of the horses from the de Chagny barn, not caring for anything else but what he'd just done. He had fooled himself into thinking he did not love her still.

He had planned it precisely. After seeing Raoul's letter, he knew he had to move fast. He would take Christine in the night and Brigitte would be imprisoned. Poor Raoul would come home to an empty house with no idea what had happened. Even if he should find Brigitte and she did tell, he and Christine would be long gone.

He had contemplated killing the girl, but oddly, he did not have a taste for it anymore. Ever since the gypsy, he had found very little in life that warranted death by his hand.

It was no matter now. He found he did not have a taste for much, not even deception. He could not trust himself around Christine. Everything he tried to hide became visible whenever he was around her, including his need for her.

He had made up his mind. He would never see Christine de Chagny again.


	12. The Make Believe

The Make Believe

It was funny. Whenever dramatic moments occurred in her life, she did not register the same way as in a play or book. It was not theatrical. She did not fall to the ground helplessly and she never cried at the right moments. It was surreal, yes, but she accepted it as surely as it were a normal occurrence. Shock had worn off and now she had silence and racing thoughts.

_When would Raoul be home? Did she have time to intercept the police? Oh, but she couldn't, she wasn't dressed right._ Her hair was a mess and her clothing, her wrinkled dress thrown carelessly over her nude body without the confines of a corset, would not do.

She laughed at her thoughts. How ridiculous to worry about one's appearance at a time like this.

_A time like this_, she thought.

The foolish grin slipped from her face and was replaced with despondency. Tears threatened her eyelids and she squeezed them tight. She never cried at the right times.

She went to her room, conscious of every step but floating on as if in a daze. At her doorway, she peered in. Her room was still the same but unfamiliar. She stood in front of the mirror.

Her eyes were pink, rimmed in red and strangely bright. Her tussled hair wound around her shoulders in wild, unkempt tresses. The dress fell off her shoulders and she could clearly see her breasts, the outline of her nipples causing her to color. Her skin was still rosy. She looked like she had just made love and then cried because it had been so beautiful.

Ashamed and caught with a sudden fervor, she ripped the dress from her body, leaving scratches on her pale skin where she had been too rough. The red lines were not alone. Her hips bore purpled bruises and her stomach had splotches where Erik had gripped her waist as he thrust into her. She was still damp; he had stained her thighs.

Blindly, she ran downstairs, cursing that piping was only confined to the first floor. Luckily, the fire was still lit and she began to boil water. _Oh, God, this was taking so long. _She had to bathe. She stared into the flickering flames, becoming obsessed with the hypnotic flames. She could not register the heat and wondered absently why she could not feel.

She leaned forward the flame. It looked colorless to her, almost black. She drew back her fingers quickly. _I am burned,_ she thought with the same cool acceptance.

The water had begun to boil, but Christine was restless. She would have to haul the water upstairs by herself because Brigitte was –

Christine bit her fingernails. _Brigitte was not here_. She had been arrested, Erik had her arrested. Her shoulders slumped and she was immediately aware of her nudity. She sat on the couch and pulled a quilt around her shivering frame. Pressing a hand to her pounding temple, she sighed a shuddering sigh that reverberated in her chest.

_Why had he done it?_ Erik was always sickeningly cryptic in his dementia and tonight was no different. He had called himself Hephaestus, the god of fire and patron of craftsmanship, and she, Aphrodite. Yes, he resembled the damaged god as well as his legendary temper. He had been tossed from Olympus to Lemnos where he built his palace under a volcano.

Christine recalled that Hephaestus had been rejected by Hera and imprisoned her in his underground palace, just as Erik had captured her. That had been his revenge then.

But she was not married to Erik as Aphrodite had been to Hephaestus. Aphrodite had cheated on Hephaestus multiple times and Hephaestus had wanted to catch her in the act. To catch her being unfaithful, he fashioned an extraordinary chain-link net, so fine and strong no one could escape from it. Then he surprised Aphrodite and Ares as they lay together in bed. He threw his magic net over them and hauled them before the Olympian gods and exhibited them as they were, naked and wrapped in each others arms.

Perhaps Erik had meant to take Christine and Raoul, but Christine did not think so. He had not wanted to play Hephaestus any longer. The thought of what he did intend frightened her because he had wanted to take just her. Christine sobbed into her hands. _I had wanted to be taken away._

The sound of the water bubbling drew Christine from her misery and she wrapped the quilt around her tightly. She was dimly aware of carrying the heavy pot upstairs and dispensing it in the tub. She barely recognized the sting of hot water as she plunged her washcloth into the shallow depths, and sponged herself with the scalding water. She stood outside the tub and scrubbed herself furiously, willing away the last few hours from her body but she could not get clean.

She scrubbed soap onto the rag in rabid strokes, punishing her skin with hot dampness and bubbling lavender. She had begun to cry again and washed her face with the cloth over and over, feeling her skin light on fire and knowing she would be red.

When she had finished she was exhausted, but her eyes were dry and now her body was red. She pulled on a chemise and sat on the bed. _What could she do?_ If she went now in the night, surely she would encounter Jacques. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost ten, the time when he started his rounds. A lone rich woman riding about town was an easy target for pick-pocketing or, worse, gossip.

But if she waited until tomorrow, she ran the risk of encountering Raoul. She would have to explain herself. She would have to tell him about Erik.

Would he know anyway? Would he take one look at her and know she had taken another to bed? Would he see the shame, the god awful betrayal that was in her eyes ?

She went to the dresser and pulled out a glass, poured brandy into it and took a deep swallow. She never drank outside of socials, and even then she would only sip precariously on wine or champagne. The brandy was Raoul's and he would take a pull from it when he was working by the desk. I only want to relax the body and mind, he had said.

She sputtered as the liquid burned her throat and settled deeply in her stomach. She could feel it warming her from the inside. Without hesitation, she took another swallow, this one deeper than the other. She only coughed once. By the third swallow, it had gone down much easier. To have something of his inside her filled her with some comfort.

As she kept drinking, she began to sway and was gripped with nausea. Unsteadily, she walked to the bed and collapsed, but still, her mind swirled.

It was not even the sex that disturbed her now. No, he had betrayed Raoul long before that. Every night she had visited him and in dreams she had held him, kissed him, made love to him. It was only now that she realized the gravity of what she had done. She could not rid Erik from her mind by refusing to speak of him. He was always there and always would be.

It was with cold calculation that she registered all this, almost as if she was hearing it from another. The man who had enamored her in adolescence could also steal her chains in adulthood. _Would I always belong to him? Would I always want to?_

Rolling over, she pressed her face into the pillow. She thought of her father then and wished for him to be there. Out loud, she whispered, "I've disappointed you, I've disappointed you." She repeated this over and over until her voice became rough and she felt she might cry once more.

Christine curled into a ball, resembling a newborn lamb sleeping by its mother's side. It began to grow dark and she fought against her weary lids. "Brigitte," she mumbled and tried to sit up. She had to get Brigitte now. The room began to spin and she fell back helplessly. Even in desperate times, Christine could never be counted on. She would never forgive herself for her selfish stupidity tonight. _God forgive me, _she thought as she was pulled under.

……………………………………………..

Erik exited the train many hours later and stepped into the streets of Paris. It was still dark but the lavender dawn was approaching. Erik quickened his pace slightly, glad that the train station was close to his destination.

Seeing it again, he thought he would be filled with anger, desperation, sadness, fondness – a strange combination of complicated emotions. But that was Erik; he was never simple.

The building was dilapidated, burnt, beyond repair. He felt a twinge of regret but it faded quickly as he remembered the reason for the Opera Populaire's demise. This place wreaked of her, of them. He would not stay long.

He entered at Rue Scribe and found everything relatively the same, if disordered and dusty. The winding caverns had been undisturbed in the four years of his absence and he found it relatively easy to find his way back. He boarded the gondola, surprised that the mob had not taken it with them. The familiarity of the bowels of the opera house chilled him and seeing his lair did not invoke the feeling of home he had anticipated. Unperturbed, Erik continued on. He was hard though and through again and nothing would disturb him from that.

Stepping out of the gondola, he looked around disinterestedly. The place had been ransacked. Everything lie in vicious dissemble. He strode forward to his organ and touched the keys gently. The sounds echoed around him loudly. He curled his fist and stepped back, staring at the instrument with – what? He did not know.

Turning to the right, he saw it. The mannequin he had created to look like Christine stared back at him blankly. He found that he had wandered over, was standing in front of it. He touched its hair softly. The doll only gazed at him with the same dead stare. _She was everywhere_. He gripped the mannequin's steely shoulders hard and tossed it back mercilessly. It clattered on the floor emptily. He could not stay here long.

He found his room relatively untouched with the exception of a few valuables he had kept. In his closet, he was relieved to see that the door to his safe had been undetected. Procuring a satchel, he touched the mechanism that released the door and stepped inside the secret room. He bent before the safe and twirled the lock until it clicked open. Inside, he counted the bills. He knew he had a few million francs inside.

Satisfied that it was still all there, he stuffed the wadded bills neatly into the satchel, returned to his bed and sat down. Exhaustion had gripped him hours before but he could not sleep yet. The next train would arrive in half an hour's time so he had to be efficient. He looked around the room for anything else he might need and found none.

Within fifteen minutes, Erik had garnered everything he needed from his former home including his coat, hat, and wig, all of which he put on hurriedly. He collected his music manuscripts, which had been blessedly spared, and put them tidily into his shiny, black leather suitcase along with clothes and an assortment of other necessities.

Whenever he paused in his activities, he felt her there. Everywhere, there was reminder of Christine.

He had paused at her bed, the black cherry wood dusty and red canvas rumpled. He recalled standing there once in the middle of the night, watching her. He drowned in remembrance of the night years ago.

She was sleeping fitfully, crying out at times, sighing joyfully at others. Her face in the candlelight was even more beautiful than he thought possible. For the thousandth time, he wished he could see her in the sunlight.

Suddenly, she awoke. Erik had not had time to retreat and stood stunned in the doorway, he sleepy eyes settling on his form and widening in surprise. She drew the blankets closer to her chest. "Oh," she said, the way one does when someone passes on a particularly scandalous piece of gossip.

Erik said nothing at first, so gripped was he by embarrassment and shock that he could not move, let alone speak. Coughing softly, he stumbled out, "I heard you crying out in your sleep and came to check that you were all right." _Lies_.

In her innocence, Christine believed him and she smiled gratefully. He felt even more despicable. "I am fine, thank you," she said quietly, as was her way upon waking. Erik knew this; he had seen her sleeping many times before.

Erik studied his feet wordlessly and Christine noticed his unease. He turned to leave and she called out, "I was dreaming of you."

Immediately, she regretted her words and felt her cheeks go pink. She was always saying things she should not say around him.

Erik stopped but did not turn to face her. It was his turn to say, "Oh."

"I, I – it's really silly," Christine stuttered, but she could not take it back now. She faced her hands in her lap, and shook her head. "I have just always had this dream as a little child, before – before you." She stopped, unsure of whether to go on. But then he was there, looming before her and she could not be silenced. Looking up at him in the dark, the candle playing against the smooth ivory of his mask and blazing green eyes that, even in the dark seemed to glow, she shuttered. His unmarked face was handsome in this light.

"My father often traveled Europe as a violinist, playing for this patron and that patron. I went with him everywhere, it was always our joke that our home was in hotels. In one place, he played for a prince in a great big Spanish palace. It was so beautiful, it moved me to tears."

She paused. "I was so young, but music still moved me." She chuckled a little. Erik felt his heart hammering.

"The dream is different than it once was. Now, I am there again but I have grown. And he's playing and I'm singing and he says, 'This is my daughter. Do not lose her.' And I am confused and suddenly, I am in a dark room and I cannot see him but he still plays. And I call out, 'Daddy I am here, they have lost me! They had lost me, I am here!' But he keeps playing and does not here me.

"But then you are there and you say, 'Spain waits for us.' And I laugh and you disappear and I disappear with you."

She smiled then, but it was a sad smile, the kind that softens Erik's eyes. She hugged her chest possessively. "I would like to go back there. I am still lost without him. Maybe then this waking nightmare would be laid to rest."

In these moments, he saw her duplicity and it always unraveled him. One moment, she was a child, only wishing for someone to hold her and tell her it would be all right. The next, she would say something so worldly and strong that he wanted to hold her as her child-self would like. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching out, holding her, kissing her, making love to her.

She looks up at him then with her wide brown eyes that have seen so much and so little. She is the child again as she asks, "Stay with me?" She touches his hand tentatively, and his ungloved palm sparks. "Just until I fall asleep."

Swallowing, he says "Yes" and sits on the edge of the bed.

Christine closes her eyes briefly, but then meets his gaze once again. It is only a second but it is enough. He sings quietly, a melody he wrote for her. Her breathing slows and a small smile curves her pink lips. He finishes and she is asleep. He rises slowly, not wanting to disturb her.

Timidly, he moves closer and reaches out a trembling hand. He grazes her lips with his fingers wonderingly. He had never known a woman's lips could be so soft. He touches his hand to his lips and exhales.

He went to bed that night but did not sleep. He thought of her lips and of making love to her.

Erik shook away his reverie and grasped his luggage firmly. He would think of her no more.

He boarded the gondola and moved through the murky, salacious waters with a deceptive silence belying his cargo. The slap of water on the small craft unsettled him inside, but he revealed naught.

He did not look back.

……………………………………………

Christine awoke to a loud banging on her door. Her head still ached and the room still whirled and she groaned, not understanding. It all rushed back within a few seconds and she gasped. _Raoul!_

The banging resumed and she scrambled out of the bed on unsteady legs. Whipping a dressing rob around her shaking frame, she stumbled downstairs, willing away the nausea that swept her. He braced herself with a few shuddering breaths and opened the door.

Christine's mouth fell open in shock.


	13. The Pieces

The Pieces

**A/N: Hello faithful readers! I know I have been a bad author but I swear it's been for a good reason. Exams/essays/partying (as a result of the first two) have gotten in the way of Erik and Christine, but I am pretty much done school at this point so look for the fic updates to pick up from now on.**

**Longblacksatinlace – you were bang-on with the "Buffy." You rock, my dear.**

**Thank you to everyone who has continued to review – I would not be able to keeping going on with this fic if you weren't still supportive.**

**About the chapter: This is a new style for me and I understand some people may be confused. But be patient, for more is on the way. **

**Thanks to my beta, agentsculder and don't forget to review!**

She was a supple young thing, with eyes that were neither hard nor soft, but in that in between stage. Almost gelatinous, they were. Dark as dusky caverns and pining with need, she looked up at him adoringly as her hair cascaded around her in loose brown curls.

They hadn't seen on another in quite some time. Erik had preferred to keep his distance after they had made love. He did not want her to become too attached, nor did he want to hurt her as he had done before. This girl was fragile although she had a somewhat stony veneer but Erik could see past all that. Still, he wore his mask even when covered by nothing more than silk sheets and the pretension of love.

She twisted in his bed as he rode her, her nose wrinkling slightly as her mouthed formed an "O" of pleasure and tiny gasps escaped her lips. If only for a few minutes, hours, nights, he could lose himself in her and find peace. She could feel loved, nestled underneath him and sheathing his cock. The part of her that was woman loved to be filled, loved to have a part of a man so cold burning in her warmth.

After he was done and she had cried out his name in a last hapless moan, he rolled off of her as he always did, adjusted his mask as was necessary and disposed of the French letter. He was careful of her; he did not want to pass on his defective seed which surely would promise a poisoned gift to the face of his unborn child.

Sighing that satisfied sigh woman make when they are without words, she rolled over and looked at him, her gaze as thoughtful as it was glazed in foggy pleasure. He always liked this part, after he was spent and wordlessness fell between the two. She looked thoroughly tousled, warm and pink in afterglow. But then she spoke.

"Erik, would you have me again tomorrow? Or should I wait in vain?" She was teasing of course, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a false smile. His eyes did not meet his lips but she didn't notice.

"I shall have to meet with a business partner tomorrow about my opera. You know I want to finance a play in Paris," he chided briskly, turning away from her as he got to his feet.

His body was lean, dark, beautiful. The scars on his back seemed out of place in the wondrous flesh, as is a night sky without moon and stars. Sinewy muscles stretched his thighs which were hard and long, up to his narrow waist and jutting hipbones. His torso was strong and masculine, but not overly so. The way he walked disregarded all this, for he was a man of pride and strength, one who had fought and scratched and scrambled under blows in his life. The slope of his shoulder showed the stiffness of one ready to take flight or fight at anytime. Although his physical beauty was indelible, he relished the dark inside. Only the right side of his face betrayed him.

She pouted behind his back. "No matter," she sighed dramatically. "My husband shall be missing me anyway."

Erik chuckled without humour. He poured a drink, downed it in a cultured swallow and grimaced at himself in the mirror, as was his way. Soon, he would forget her.

………………………………………………

The patio was lovely. Marble tables and dove grey brick were a pleasant prelude to the punch of colour around Christine. Pink gardenias, golden sunflowers, periwinkle snap dragons and white roses exploded around her, illuminated by the crass blare of the sun. Her dress was a dusty rose and her hands were folded. The delicate white china sitting on the table was sharp and rich. It was all so beautiful.

Brigitte approached Christine with a silver tray balanced in her hands bearing yet more tea and butter croissants. Christine would have none. Brigitte grimaced.

As Brigitte placed the tray on the patio table, Christine seemed to snap out of her reverie and, startled, uttered a too-fast greeting. Brigitte simply smiled.

"We are selling the Bordeaux house," Christine murmured, her thoughts drifting away once more.

"Yes," Brigitte replied. "I know."

"I will miss it," Christine said absently, rubbing her elbow.

"Ha! I won't."

Christine had to chuckle a little, but it was short-lived. Her face became grave and she nodded. "Yes, I should think that you would not at all."

Brigitte's indignance left her and her hands slipped off her hips.

"Really, Christine, I am sorry to make you feel that way. It – "

"— Was not so bad?" Christine finished, a tight smile alighting her mouth. They had been here before. Would they ever leave?

"Yes, yes, it wasn't so bad." She worried at her skirts for a moment. "He let me go." Then she looked up, confusion and curiosity making the words burst from her like a dam.

"Will you – do you think you will see him again?"

If it was possible for all blood to leave the body and the heart to stop pumping immediately, Christine would have resembled what it would look like. She looked at Brigitte and the sight unnerved her. Childish hopefulness and hateful regret. It was a strange sight.

………………………………

In Madrid, Italian opera and zarzuelas were the most popular acts at the Teatro Real Opera House. Tonight was the premiere of the opera "La Bella," the story of a beautiful young noblewoman who betrays her husband for a lowly servant. The servant becomes so obsessed with Bella and, unbelieving that a woman as beautiful as her could love him, kills her when he suspects her of infidelity. The servant realizes what his madness has driven him to and takes his own life.

Erik was never one for subtlety.

He watched in shadow as if nothing had changed. The play had been composed by a Senor Villi Tempesta, according to the program that evening. Only Jean Trudeau was privy to the real composer's identity. The manuscript had been passed to him with strict orders and bartered around to the finest operas in Madrid. Madrid's finest opera house had taken the bait.

A box seat had been reserved for Erik. Miguel Delgado, the manager, observed the adjacent box with a frown. No one was occupying the seat he had specifically kept open for Falla. The mystery shrouding this man was irritating but a facetious and lucrative selling point. The theatre had sold out opening night, a good sign for a fledgling production. Despite the composer's reluctance to reveal himself outside of couriers and go-betweens, the play really was wonderful: dark, gritty, romantic and superbly over-the-top. Besides, any tragic romance was bound to draw in weepy noblewomen and soft-hearted war veterans.

Not that any of this mattered to him, so long as he was paid. Artistic endeavour or no, this was still a business.

The curtain fell and the audience rose in applause. The resounding accolades boomed throughout the theatre, rattling the floor under Erik's feet. He was in shadow, always would be, but it did not embitter him. The cloak of darkness and anonymity suited him. He was crazy like that. The thought made him smile as tears rolled down his cheeks. _His music, his music …_

……………………………………..

Brigitte and Christine sat in the kitchen in silence, one knitting, the other reading. Christine saw the words, must have read the same paragraph at least twelve times, but it would not register. She could not even find solace within her own mind. She was frustrated, on edge, annoyed, pissed off, frightened, taut like the strings of a violin.

He was coming, any moment he would be here. He would look in her eyes and know, like a fog lifting.

Brigitte was acting as if everything were all right, like she hadn't just walked in the door at midnight, free of manacles and confusion. She was overly talkative at times, disturbingly silent and thoughtful at others. God knows what she was thinking. She'd forgiven Christine, had reluctantly understood him.

_Your chains are still mine. You belong to me._

Brigitte had been shackled because of her, but Christine had not been the one to release her.

The clock ticked away.

……………………………………………

She had almost attacked him, grinding her mouth against his like a wanton whore. He had been taken aback, but had kept up, responding to her rough, seeking tongue with his own soft, supple one. She had removed her clothes and waited under the covers, modesty claiming her for a short while.

Raoul looked at her, amazement and a twinge of masculine pride in his eyes. They had not seen each other in a while; her ardour was understandable. That she had wanted him so made him hard and he ducked his chin. He could not help but be somewhat boyish in the face of her overwhelming womanhood.

Scrambling out of his own clothes like a slack-tongued teenager, he tripped once and fumbled more than twice. Kicking his trousers aside and shedding his drawers, he hurried to her side, awkwardly fitting himself on top of her.

Raoul could not help chiding himself for this sudden whack of inexperience, but she was looking at him, her eyes so wide, and needing him.

He was inside her now, gentling his thrusts within her as she gripped his shoulder, staring over his. Tears glistened her eyes. She gripped his hips and tightened her legs, wound around his waist, drawing him further inside of her, harder.

Raoul bit his lip. _God, it had never been like this before_. He propped himself up on his elbows, first on her hair then, seeing his mistake, readjusted. He moved quickly, encouraged by her moans, louder and louder.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think_, she chastised herself in silence. _It feels good, it feels good, it feels good._

Her nails dug into his back and Raoul grunted in surprise.

"You're so beautiful, so beautiful," he hissed out, stroking her face.

His skin was clammy under her hands and one of his teeth was crooked. His hair fell in his face, obscuring his best features: his eyes.

"More," she said, her voice gravely. Christine looked determined. "Hard."

Like a dog eager to please its master, he continued his assault on her body.

He felt soft to her now. So soft. She cried in his shoulder as he lay asleep beside her.

………………………………………………..

There was a property on the outskirts of Madrid that had been abandoned for some time. No one took notice of it one way or the other.

Lately, it had begun to quietly flourish. The lawn looked neater, tidier, but restrained. It was not bedecked with gaudy flowers or gargantuan statues. Very little light came from the windows at night and only footmen and servants entered and left its doors.

There may not be life inside, but there was definitely money.

…………………………………………..

Erik had been to Milan, Nice, Rome and it looked like Paris would be next.

Looking into the mirror, he straightened his cravat. Where his music went, he would follow, even if it led him to the bowels of hell. Paris, hell – they were often interchangeable.

God, it would be a triumphant return. Champagne bursts and flutes meeting in a toast, fireworks blazing the sky, gossip being exchanged like petty change. All the nobles he had scorned and hated would be there, paying homage to his art even as the memory of the Phantom turned their thoughts bitter. Common people were never none the wiser, and nobles were the worst kind of common.

He walked about his mansion now in the daytime, the curtains drawn, a habit from his past that he could not shake. Perhaps he did not want to shake it; it was a comfort, a reminder of what he was. Erik could not deny that he was not entirely good, and some of his darkness came from himself and not his face. This face had earned loathing and hatred but he had been responsible for his development. He had not been good.

The house which he now lived in as a free man was spectacular, ornate, luxurious, darkly rich. Only the finest accoutrements adorned his living space. Leather, silk, satin, velvet. Black, cranberry, dusky rose, midnight blue. It was beautiful; he was surrounded by beauty, all as a result of his hands.

He examined them now: perfect, smooth, masculine hands not without the lines of time and labour. From his hands came his music, the emissaries responsible for his vast wealth. His pseudonym could be heard throughout Europe and his operas (he had turned out three to the public in only eight short months) were flourishing, rousing successes.

He sipped wine at his balcony at night, facing away from the city and into the dawn. He could read without candlelight; the sun was his willing servant now. At times, he took his horse into town in the wee hours of the early morning and toured around this city that he owned. It was grim satisfaction, it was beautiful. It was everything he had ever wanted.

He closed his fists now, watching as the veins popped and his skin became flushed. _This was happiness_, he told himself. _This was enough_.

He walked up the swirling, mahogany wood stairs to his lush bedroom affixed with soft candlelight and furniture that whispered "_money_." His organ was there, shiny ebony and soft ivory keys. Her picture was there, laboured over for months. Her lips dripped with rubies and her hair as dark and winding as the nights he spent alone thinking of her. He touched her lips now, looked into her pleading eyes and shuddered. He ripped the picture from its frame, viciously tore it into pieces. He had longed for her forever and always and it constantly ended the same way. He had a new life now and had found in himself peace and satisfaction. But not her, never her.

_So it would be Paris after all._

……………………………………………….

Raoul was a good husband. Every night, he would hold her, kiss the tip of her nose and murmur good will into her ear. Her good qualities were vast and he was never at a loss for words. She was cold now, but Raoul did not notice. Not entirely, anyway.

Christine often cried to the point that it became as natural as waking. Her shame ran deep and never ending, bound for an ocean of misery she knew she would drown in.

Her finery was endless, her beautiful dresses, homes, meals, parties all around her. She loved her husband, she loved Brigitte. They were very similar to Christine. She could feel delicate and naïve under their watch. She was not delicate and naïve. Erik had rid her of that.

_Erik_.

She had tried everything. She had thought of him. She had forced herself into a frenzy of busyness so torrid that she barely had a thought to herself and collapsed in her bed, falling asleep instantly. But then he came to her in her dreams, sometimes just talking to her. Those dreams were worse than the ones when they made love. One dream in particular haunted her; she dreamt it over and over again. _Floating away, away …_

Now she had settled into the noble lifestyle, the false smile always there and the petty gossip falling from her lips before she could stop it. Even as the noxious words fell from her mouth, she felt helpless, just as when she fucked her husband without looking into his eyes.

Brigitte looked at her in a way that made her feel as though she was staring through iron bars.

She had flirted with the stable boy. More than once, she had enticed him with uncouth words. It was not uncommon for a noblewoman to take a lover.

But she could not, and worst of all, it was not because of the man she was married to.

Sometimes she would drink, lacing her poison with laudanum. She wrote in her diary often and visited the grave of her father less. She laughed until she cried and she ached endlessly. In private, always in private. She felt confined to this house and daylight gave her no joy. She was not free.

……………………………………………..

_Dear Christine, _

_I am so excited for this play! I have been working so hard in the corps and I find that I am improving every day (if I do say so myself). That snooty cow Marie has been giving me the nastiest looks because of my success. She is a lot like Carlotta but without half the charm._

_I hope you will come to opening night next week. The opera has been very successful elsewhere and hopefully it will be just as successful here (for my sake!). It is very different than anything we ever did at the Opera Populaire, but familiar somehow._

_I am rambling now but I hope to see you next week. I have enclosed two tickets for you and Raoul to join us should be inclined. I had to wrestle the managers for these so you better acquiesce to my request, Madame de Chagny!_

_Love,_

_Meg_


	14. The Opera

The Opera

**A/N: I've had a lot to deal with the past week and I hope you guys forgive me for breaking my promise of more frequent updates. I hope to have things (school, apartment, etc) sorted out better this week so I can get back to writing. I already have a chapter written two chapters after this one done.**

**Thanks to my beta, agentsculder, who didn't like my "silly skin" comment (jokes!). Don't forget to review.**

Christine gazed at herself in the mirror. Her dress was fabulous, ridiculously ornate and just as outrageously expensive. She had spared no expense on this dress, an original she had custom-made from the finest blood red brocade and taffeta. The bodice was low-cut but not garishly so, and laced with fine black lace. She was cinched in tightly at the waist (although she was already small, almost frail) that bloomed into a full skirt. A luminous black bustle decorated the back and ruby jewellery dripped from her ears and neck.

Brigitte entered the room, her head ducked slightly and her hands folded before her.

"Oh, Madame, you look beautiful," she murmured.

Christine raised an eyebrow at her hurried tone. "Yes, I suppose I should make those rich old birds jealous in this fine ensemble."

Her voice grew sharp at the mention of socialites who were friends of the de Chagnys. A look of sternness, of malicious quality, creased her brow for a moment, but then she laughed with a toss of her hair. She sat at the vanity table, touching white powder to her face in even strokes. Brigitte hurried behind Christine to worry at her hair.

"Amelie wore the most _hideous_ confection to the last gala, I just cannot wait to see what she has in store this time," Christine added with a pretty cackle. "Oh, and would you believe it? She is back with Francois."

"You must be joking," Brigitte replied, nonplussed.

"Oh, no, I am not. If Monsieur LaJeunesse were ever to discover the couple ensconced in a compromising position or two …" Christine made a slicing motion across her throat.

_It would serve her right_, Christine thought. Poor _Francois, he was in love with Amelie._ _Why Amelie would sink her claws into a kind-hearted soul like that boy was unthinkable_.

Suddenly, Christine was overcome with a seething hate, one that consumed her heart, boiling fiery in her chest. _Amelie was nothing more than an ill-bred, inbred cheating whore. Then what are you? _a tiny voice piped up. Shame coloured her cheeks at the thought, and she became silent, sullen.

Brigitte noticed the change and shrugged her shoulders. Christine was prone to these lapses of withdrawal. Usual or not, Brigitte was annoyed.

"Why does Amelie concern you, Madame?" Brigitte asked, forcing curiosity into her voice, although her tone was somewhat subdued. _Needle her, but don't prattle on like a Pharisee. _

Surprised, Christine lifted her head and locked eyes with Brigitte in the mirror for a moment. Then her shoulders sagged and she chirped, "She told me. You know that." Christine grew self-conscious at the topic. She shrugged, but on the inside, she thought, _she is judging me_. _You've done the same cowardly sin._

Christine dropped her eyes, but not before she saw the look of consternation across Brigitte's face. Indignantly, she raised a hand to her chest as if taking an oath and said, "You know I would not concern myself with their petty drama."

Brigitte nodded. _She lies well now, that is what changed._ Dropping her hands from Christine's wild curls, she amended, _Would I have done the same?_ Sighing slightly, she felt bad because she knew she could not do what Christine had done.

"Of course not, Madame."

She had not used her first name. Irritated, Christine rose from the vanity and drew herself up to her full height as she faced Brigitte. Her mouth formed a tight line, an imitation of a grin, and she leaned forward, taking Brigitte's shoulders in her hands.

"Oh, dear Brigitte. You are lucky not to be in the position of a noblewoman. I am afraid it would be too much for you." With a short laugh and an endearing squeeze, she added, "Sometimes it is too much for even me." Christine gave a slight wink and turned away, her false smile falling with her dainty footsteps.

She cursed herself inwardly as she walked away. _You've hurt her, you fool. You are so awfully unfeeling at times._

_I can't help it, it is not my fault_, she fought back, her pace quickening as she rounded the exquisite decorated halls of the de Chagny estate. She did not take in the classic, twinkling chandelier above nor the rich paintings adorning the golden wood borders and elaborately designed walls. It was lovely, all so lovely.

The ugliness inside Christine only seemed to grow. She was aware, but unwilling to fight back. It was easier to sink into the cold depths, embrace her most base of instincts. Life is hard, she must allow herself to take the road most travelled at times.

Brigitte was insolent at times, anyway. She never knew when to hold her tongue. Christine secretly thought Brigitte was in love with Raoul. But, God, she loved her. _My best friend, my closest soul_, Christine thought.

Her eyes became misty. It was all so familiar. The walls that, when she re-examined them or cursed their existence, broke and let loose pain, agony, tears, god-awful self-pity. _I know better_.

She found herself outside Raoul's personal quarters and immediately stiffened, her back becoming ramrod straight. Careful to assemble into perfect, detached – _don't forget delicate_, her mind supplied bitterly – poise, Christine knocked on the door to announce her presence. Now, she lived to please Raoul. She wanted nothing more than to be his perfect wife.

Pausing for the five seconds she ticked off in her head and mindful to make as little noise as possible when turning the knob, Christine quietly swept into the room.

………………………………………………..

He watched from above.

_Different opera house, same single-minded herd_, he thought. It was still the same, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

………………………………………………

Christine fell but Erik was quick enough to catch her. She had fainted at the site of the woman before her.

Erik deftly carried Christine to her bed and placed her on the pillow. _I want to devour her_, he thought. He touched her cheek, the sensation through his gloved hand enough to send tingles playfully running up his spine. Erik leaned in, inhaled the same skin he had just touched, wondering in the soft baby rose scent of her skin.

Clenching his jaw, he quelled against the lusty throb that went through him. His eyes went to the tips of her breasts, the blustery cream fabric barely encasing her chest, which heaved softly as Christine slept. His voice carried on, and he stepped out of the room, forcing his hand to close the drapery and leave her.

_Leave her be, goddammit_, his mind screamed. _She is a girl, an innocent. Your puerile thoughts only taint her goodness and what you say you feel for her._

_I love her, oh God, I love her_, he raged back. "Be practical," he rasped under his breath, clenching his fists, willing away the pain of his cock straining against his pants. "Be practical. Leave – just forget this." He had never touched a woman, never slipped inside another's warmth. No caress, no tender touch, no pursed lips ever fell against his skin. Reading about gentleness and kindness was like reading a fantasy novel. It was a concept not based in this reality. Love was alien, tenderness was a fable.

He kept his mirrors around for a purpose. He stormed over to one sheathed in a velvet curtain and ripped it away. His lips had curled into a snarl, and a smattering of sweat beaded his brow. His eyebrows were narrowed, almost a cartoonish, raging caricature of himself. But his ugliness only grew darker. _That_ _black hole that swallows me like oil, dark, glistening, thick oil. It was all consuming and impossible to rid._

She responded to him. He had seen it in her eyes, her lips which fell open in a quirky O, her tongue unconsciously caressing her mouth. He sucked on his touch, relishing in the sensation of what a kiss might be like. He imagined her soft lips, touched his fingers to his own. _Just to see her, just to touch her …_

His heart beat sped up, and he staggered back to her, loathing himself more and more with every step. _Lecherous, disgusting fool! _To give in to his most basic instincts – it was worse than anything he could imagine. It made him like the others, flawed human beings who brushed their hair until it shined and exuded false confidence, who whittled through life with an insincere smile and the wild stupidity of wanting to fit in. To be like them was worse than death. He was a god above them, a god forced to dwell underground despite his internal beauty and genius. _Forgive them father_, he often smirked, t_hey know not what they do_.

He was at the threshold, and seeing her brought him back. She broke his heart. Silly, foolish heart that let him know he was still human. The sound of his pulse had always reassured him in a childlike way. He knew it was foolish to let anatomy determine who he was, but he was humbled at times. His face humbled him the rest of the time. _I am not a god_, he thought as his eyes whisked up her body. The iridescent shimmer of her stockings caught his eye and he swallowed. His mind suddenly became a playground for romance-novel adjectives, but he was too absorbed with her skin, _her silly, pale skin_, to notice the irony.

He removed his gloves with shaky hands. _I only want to touch her a little, only a little. _He grimaced hard. God would not allow him anything more than a glimpse, a grazing finger. _Flesh is weak, flesh is weak. _Reaching out a hand, he trembled.

She shifted a little in her sleep, and moaned low in a throat. Erik snatched back his hand, desperately watching her eyes. _Did they flicker? Did I see them open?_ Her left finger twitched.

His body seemed to move of its own accord, and with sickening envy he watched himself as if from afar as his hands resumed their trek and found her throat. It was with the helplessness of a baby that he watched himself, his oddly masculine hands that seemed so out of place touching her soft skin, the swell of her breasts making him breath catch in his throat. He drew one long finger across the lace, feeling the edge of the corset which was ostensibly rough next to her fine flesh. He wanted to crawl inside her, know what it felt like to be encased by her softness and warmth. He wanted her to take care of him, love him and hold him gently in her arms as she rocked him back and forth. Touching her waist, flat under the corset, he wanted to fuck her.

Even as the bile threatened to leap forward and choke him, he ventured further, wondering at the curves or waist as it gently expanded to her hips than dipped again at the apex of her thighs. _Would she be warm in the middle, slightly damp, like the books said?_ His mouth was dry, his erection was painful and his knuckles threatened to snap from his hands. _Wouldn't it be funny if I no longer had knuckles? Somewhat like having a limp cock._ He would have chuckled at the irony had his arousal been less insistent.

He drifted away, trailing his hands down the side of her thighs, coming across the stockings once more. They were lacy at the tops and gauzy. _Mother had worn stockings,_ he thought absently. He drew away from her slightly, troubled by the thought of his mother. The smoothness of her lean leg brought him back to his senses – _or perhaps, I am no longer with my senses_.

His mind grew blank again, the pounding of his heart making his breath uneven and sending blood rushing to his ears. He wanted to feel all of her, wanted to steal a piece from her. _She is mine, if only for a moment_.

With unsettling precision, he rolled away her stockings, occasionally stinging his fingers on her warm skin and sending bolts of sensation through his body and down to his core. He stuffed them into his waistcoat and closed his eyes. He placed his hand on her bare thigh, unable to bear looking at and touching her simultaneously. As his hand crept forward, he thought, _Why is she so warm? _He moved closer to her core, trembling at the contact, and with revulsion and a perverse fascination he could not shake, touched her.

_She is warm, somewhat damp. Her skin is impossibly soft. Maybe it is so soft because of her youth. _

_I am old. Will I hurt her with my hands? They are rough, they might scratch her. I might! I might scratch her. _

_Oh God, I am old. I feel alive touching her. Monster, despicable monster. _

_You would not give her up. She is a young girl, a young girl …_

The screaming in his head tormented him, and he tore himself away violently. Erik fell to his knees and poured his suddenly throbbing head into his hands. _Despicable monster! _ He shook slightly and stumbled to his feet. In his shame, he remembered to make his escape a quiet one, lest Christine awaken and witness his crime.

_Christ, I'd touched her. She was asleep, dreaming of the stage and goodness, her father. Her father. Did she think me her father? Why shouldn't she, you disgusting fool._

Reaching his room, he tore a canvas of Christine silhouette from the wall and collapsed on the bed. With a hateful vengeance that curled his toes, he ripped open his pants and grabbed himself forcefully. With a seething rage that unmercifully clenched his hands, he pumped his cock with a rawness that caused him aching. He could feel his skin beginning to chafe, but bit his teeth together to bear it. He held her picture in front of him with his free hand, glaring at it. _Live through this_, he told himself. _Love her through this. This is enough._

With a savage cry, he came, spilling white lot liquid onto his hands. His semen stained his hands, making them slick and sticky.

He curled into a fetal position. The canvas clutched in his hands wrinkled in his ruthless grip. _You are weak, you are nothing._ This was not the only time he had watched Christine, unaware of his presence, and stroked himself to completion. Every time, he felt the same self-hate, mocking and disgust for his person. But he could not deny himself. Or her. _Bloody Casanova, aren't you?_

"Self-pitying fool," he said out loud, his voice thick. "You play the role so well."

Rolling to his feet, he straightened, refusing to acknowledge submission to his physical senses. He changed his jacket rudely, adjusting his clothing in a self-effacing manner. His touch was just a little too harsh, his jaw clenched a little too tightly. _She deserves better, a delicate love, a china love._

"China love," he murmured. Striding to his organ, he banished his thoughts from his mind and composed. Only then, when he punished his fingers, pounding the keys and thrashing his body about sensually, did he feel in control. But he was a slave to her, his muse. _The need in me, and Christine,_ he thought, _They drive me to this, to my genius_.

He played and thought of the Orient.

………………………………………

Christine arrived at the Paris Opera with Amelie at her side and Raoul in tow behind her. He frowned at her arched back, shaking with the shrill laughter that echoed around her. She held a beautifully manicured hand to her chest and giggled without the accompaniment of her eyes. _Or sincerity_, Raoul thought.

This life had changed her; he had realized that long ago. She had grown accustomed to the finery, ordering this gown and that hat, always receptive to offers for more jewellery. But she did smile so when he adorned her with gifts, and he lived for her lips to turn upwards because of him. To see her happiness bloom before his eyes gave him comfort and filled him with a pride only a husband in love could feel. This beautiful creature belonged to him and him alone. She blossomed under his hands.

They filed forward, Christine and Amelie throwing out salutations like batons. The gossip swirled around them in a gusty wind. Everyone was cordial with one another. No touch was too harsh, only the barest utterance of a handshake as if the mere acquiescence to contact another was special and laboured gift. If Christine's touch were a sound, it would be a whisper.

She was delicate and monstrously sexual, a sage of virginal innocence and wielded sensuality. Her dress, puckered here and tailored there, was nothing if not erotic. He had gaped upon seeing her at his door, her lips scarlet and eyes flashing. She had wordlessly slipped onto his desk top and crossed her legs, leaning back languorously. Her heels tapped up and down to a silent melody. As he approached, she uncrossed her legs. He took her without a word as she looked at the painting behind him.

Now, as she gracefully alighted the steps of the opulent lobby, she remembered that it had been a Delacroix painting. The name escaped her, but she remembered that there had been men on horses and one of the men had wore a tunic of the most beautiful colour. She had mentally reminded herself to have a dress made just like it.

Someone touched her arm, and she turned. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.

"Meg!"

"Christine!"

The two women squealed like school girls and the nobles glared at the vicomtess unrepentantly. Christine blushed, and took Meg's hand in her own, leading her away from the flock.

"Oh, Meg, you look wonderful," Christine sighed, taking in her friend's small shape and pretty blonde hair framing cherub-like features. Meg was in full make-up and looked like a painted little doll.

"You must be crazy," she chided like old times. "I look like a clown in _this_ make-up and _this_ dress."

Truthfully, Meg did look a little foolish.

"Well, it's … a night look, I suppose."

Meg gaped at the audacity of her friend and slapped her playfully on the shoulder. The two dissolved in giggles. _Dear Meg_, Christine thought. Looking at her now, Christine became sad. _I miss being like her_.

A dark-clad figure caught her eye and Christine froze. Christine's face fell as she barely registered the form of a man and a flash of white. He moved too quickly for Christine to be sure, but for one cold, endless second, she thought it was him.

"Erik," Christine whispered, no longer conscious of where she was. When she thought of him, it was as if time ceased.

Confused, Meg called out to her, "Christine?"

_You are delusional, Christine. Wake up_. Christine turned back to her friend and forced a smile. _You do that so well, don't you, dear?_

"Nothing, Meg," she chastised awkwardly. Seeing bewilderment, Christine coughed and amended, "Old habits die hard."

With a knowing smile, Meg smiled and held her friend's shoulders. Her eyes crinkled in the way people's do when they are sad. _Die hard or not at all,_ Meg thought.

"Come with me," she said, clasping Christine's hand in her own. "I will give you the grand tour."

"Meg, dear, I have been here before," Christine replied, relieved that Meg had believed her. _Or felt so sorry for her crazy friend that she mercifully changed the subject to spare me more embarrassment_.

"Perhaps," Meg replied with a wicked grin, "but I will show you what you haven't seen."


	15. The Harmony

The Harmony

The Paris Opera made Christine uncomfortable.

Meg chattered on about this light fixture and that sculpture, the cute chorus boys in "La Bella" and everything but the last opera house they had shared together. She took in the polychrome façade and opulent staircase, all lit in soft light, casting a golden veneer all around. The foyers were bedecked with small, twinkling chandeliers, moody paintings by celebrated romantic artists, golden columns and marble floor that echoed loudly with the _click click_ of her high heels.

She smiled with a bemused expression, but was unattached all the same. Being a patron's wife had rid her of some of the childlike astonishment one gets observing sumptuous affluence. It saddened her; no matter what had become of her – or Erik – she did not wish to harden her heart.

The Paris Opera, or Opera Garnier, was gorgeous; it was heavily and exorbitantly ornamented and utterly lovely – she was surrounded by nothing but loveliness. What did an opera stand for if not fantasy and impossible beauty? _Illusions of grandeur even Erik had tried to attain but never held_, she thought. Looking around, it was so much like the opera house neither of them would mention. Christine was not annoyed; the voice in her head was enough reminiscing for the both of them.

When they came to the "La fontaine sous la petite rotonde," Christine caught her breath. They both lingered at the statue lit by soft candelabras on both sides and standing elegantly in a curiously aquamarine pool that reminded her of his eyes.

"I have seen this before," Christine said quietly. "But it never fails to make me stop…" The woman in the sculpture was so poised, delicate and refined. A motherly creature made of stone. It caused Christine's heart to ache.

Meg paused, admiring the sculpture, absently recalling Christine's own lack of a mother figure in her life. The thought saddened her and she hurried on, "I really must show you the spectacular view from the roof top."

"The – the roof top?" Christine's eyebrow quirked and she was filled with a rush of excitement and apprehension. Christine and Raoul had first admitted their love for one another on the roof of the Opera Populaire. It was a bittersweet memory and her mouth turned up slightly. She cupped her arms around herself.

"Sure," she said, almost a whisper. "I would love that."

Meg turned and led the way with a grin and Christine's face slowly dropped, like wax melting down the staff of a candle stick.

……………………………………………………….

Charles Gumery's "Harmony" sculpture was ineffably beautiful, but no match for a perfect Paris night sky.

Lamps gave the ground below a romantic light, chasing away shadow and bathing passersby in a false sun. But the sky was a diamond and black velvet masterpiece. _Endless, dark, amazing._

No one was around and Meg was silent. Christine approached the roof's edge, placing her hands on the granite banister, adoringly stroking the cold stone beneath her. _No one was around. _

"The managers do not like us to come up here, but I had to show you. It is breath-taking, no?"

"Yes," Christine replied. "Oh, God … It's wonderful."

Christine's mind drifted off to another place. Meg noted her visible ascension, and folded her hands. She did not have much to add, for the sight of Paris at night never ceased to render her near speechlessness. Meg shivered as the gentle night chill prickled her skin and she remembered her place.

"I am afraid I have to get back. I just wanted to show you this so that maybe – maybe you would like it." She ended on a hopeful note. Christine had not been herself tonight and Meg had sensed the change in the friend she had known all her life. Christine had always been good at hiding within herself, but some things could not be tucked away forever. Meg sensed her unhappiness at the core although she did not know why.

Meg touched her friend's arm gently and felt Christine jerk a little, just slightly, but it was enough. "We should head back down. Raoul will be missing you."

"Not yet," Christine replied, her eyes still to the black horizon dotted with city lights. She turned to Meg, gave her the slightest acquiescence of reassurance with her eyes. Meg was slightly taken aback.

"I would like to stay for a few moments more. This place," she wet her lips, "It reminds me of home." She turned to Meg, her arms wrapped around her midriff. "Is that strange?"

Christine had grown these few years, but looking at her now, Meg saw that little child her mother had taken in 20 years ago. Giving a slight nod, one of those little gestures that mean more than words, Meg said, "Alright."

Christine granted her a smile, one she meant. It felt good. Meg made her feel good.

When she was alone, Christine turned back to the skyline and sighed. She was very rarely alone in her new life, which was ironic. As a child, she had hated isolation, had only found comfort in the voice of her Angel. _An Angel who wasn't an angel at all_. She bit her lip, despising the flood of memories and feelings she was sure would rush upon her like an unrelenting landslide. She was puzzled when all she felt was the night chill upon her spine. Something in the air had changed.

Exhaling deeply, Christine clenched the bars of the banister tightly.

"Why are you here?"

There was no response, no sound, but she knew. Like a mother knows when her child is distressed, she always knew him, felt him, saw him in her mind.

"I would reply you the same."

Christine had to force herself to keep from jumping as his breath caught the tender skin on her ear and her body instantly responded to his nearness. He was always silent, a creeping hunter and without words or sound he had crept up to her very side without her knowing. _Still the Phantom_, she grimaced, even as her heart began to race.

Deliberately giving him her back, she found it was easy to be cruel. "My husband is the patron. I am here as his wife."

Erik chuckled low in his throat, a sound that was faintly human. "Your husband." He said the two words with such revulsion, condescension and seething hate that Christine was amazed he was able to express so much in the capacity of three syllables. Amazement escaped her and was replaced with anger.

Slowly, she turned around, leaning back slightly against the banister. Ignoring his face beguiled with a loathsome smirk and cold, penetrating eyes that paradoxically held such heat, she reared back and slapped him as hard as she could. She began to shake, her hands trembling at her sides and her chest heaving mightily. Her eyes gleamed with an animalistic aggression and her lips, painted scarlet, were pulled back against pearly teeth clenched firmly in anger. The force of the slap had let loose a few curls from her French twist, making her look like some wild thing. He could not take his eyes off of her.

"I will spare you my words, but I will not spare you my scorn. Stay _away_ from me now and forever or you will pay the price." She glared at him once more before turning to stalk away, her skirts gathered in shaking hands, trying furiously to blink back tears.

His opera had begun. He could hear the strains of violins seeping through the globed ceiling of the Garnier.

"Who?" He uttered without a single quaver. She turned around to regard his profile, upright and confident, and became even more irate. He waited another beat before expanding. "Who will carry out this threat you so idly have taxed on my head?" He turned around with the casual air of a man perusing a china collection. Meeting her raging brown eyes with his own detached ones, he regarded her without betraying the ache her presence was causing him.

He could hear his heroine singing below him, could barely make out the words of the first aria. He did not need to hear it though.

Christine was unsure of how to react faced with the calm of his countenance. "My husband," she bit out awkwardly, drawing herself up slightly and smoothing her skirts with false confidence. Crossing her arms across her chest and casting a cool glance in his direction, Christine tried her damnedest to be aloof and disdainful.

_The jealous wind_

_The humble butterfly …_

The mention of Raoul's rightful place in her life shook him more than he would have liked to let on and he lost some of his self-possession. "Your husband," he mocked, "That boy would not have the nerve nor the stones." He cast his eyes down, moving them up her body slowly, lingering at her breasts. Christine was suddenly conscious of her breathing. He took one step forward, and Christine reacted.

_How humorously love metamorphoses to hate_

_A caterpillar glimpsing crimson monarch_

_Despises his bristles_

_Longing to flutter free on angel wings_

"Stop." Her voice took on the same whisper it had before the fountain. He continued to approach. _Damn you, Christine, act like an adult for once._ Stretching her arms out before her protectively, she continued, stronger this time, "Just. Stop." She hated that childlike quaver that always caught in her throat like a bird trying to escape its cage.

"Leave me alone," she said stonily, her eyes boring into his.

_A butterfly _

_Free to fly to the tune of the wind's whistle_

Erik obeyed her request, but a smirk fell upon his lips once more. "Stop?" He queried, focusing on her mouth. "Is that what you really would like me to do." It was not a question.

"Erik, please." _His name_ _– she had not spoken it since they had last seen one another, when he'd – _

"You can't. Please leave me be." She could not look at him now.

_The wind toys with its fragility_

_Dances with its dangerous love_

"Why?"

"You betrayed my trust!" Christine exploded, expelling built up emotions she was not sure she had. "You hurt me, you hurt Brigitte, with your lies, your deception! How could you do it? You had never intentionally hurt me, never! Not before." Her voice trailed off and she was suddenly very tired.

Erik wanted to talk to her, tell her he was sorry, tell her he loved her. He kissed her instead.

His lips on hers took her by surprise and she reeled back almost immediately. _Almost_.

They said nothing. He stared, she stared. They both thought it was ridiculous, rude even, but neither could stop.

_The wind caresses and threatens to break_

_The cautious butterfly, teasing clouds above_

_The jealous wind takes him higher_

The aria ended. Neither noticed. He took one hesitant step forward, the confident charm worn away once more as it always did when she was around. He drew his hand up and it lingered there for a moment, both of them aware, almost hypnotized by its presence, unmoving, in the air. It was almost in slow motion that she watched his hand approach, watched his fingers curl and his thumb move closer to her mouth. She could not breath, could barely blink. _Run!_, her mind screamed, _Run away!_

His thumb touched the left corner of her mouth and lingered slightly, both of them rattled by the shock their meeting flesh had incited. His eyes burned into hers. The orchestra struck up a dark, dissonant rhythm of clanging brass and shrill winds. A bass drum beat steadily. _He was sorry, so sorry, could not say it._ She seemed to understand and did not pull away. She blinked, testing reality, realizing this was not a dream.

Slowly, he dragged his thumb across her lips, smearing her scarlet rouge. She could not help her tongue from darting out as he could not help from shaking at the sensation.

He withdrew his hand, and they both locked eyes.

"You are beautiful without it," Erik murmured without thinking.

_I am accountable for what went wrong,_ he seemed to say. A horn blared. But perhaps she was wishing it. Erik's mouth would not – could not – work. The words that he wielded like weapons clattered to the grown in defeat with a hollow clang. He stood there, dumb and speechless, as utterly entranced by her as he was afraid. The music took on a lively banter, joyous and carefree. Hours seemed to pass as they stood there, staring at one another.

Christine blinked and touched a finger to her mouth as if it were a foreign object. Her lips felt the same way she remembered them to be, but somehow different. She lowered her lashes. _Get it together, be calm, be reasonable_. But all reason had left her the moment she had let him touch her. She almost laughed, knowing it was a lie. She had left reason behind the moment she had stepped onto the roof top terrace.

"I, I have to go." _That is not my voice_, she registered through a haze. _Is that my voice?_ Weakly, she tried again. "I have to leave. I cannot stay." Still, it sounded foreign, as if she were listening to her ghost-self speak. The music grew suddenly louder, rising to a grand crescendo, then died suddenly. _It was familiar._ Christine frowned, ignoring the niggling of intuition at the back of her mind.

She started looking around wilding and backed up slightly. Erik was losing her.

"Christine, wait." Panic had crept into his voice and, he feared, his face. He held out a hand and didn't know why. "Just – wait."

She obeyed. She was used to obeying Erik. A flute whistled in the distance.

Seconds passed and their breathing was audible. _You are afraid_, a voice said. _You have always been afraid._ He shook his head. _She does not love you. Leave her be_.

Inclining his head, he could not look at her, only shake his head. She looked at him and saw a man defeated. She turned around, stumbled and walked recklessly to the roof top door. _Only a few paces and I will be safe_. Something called her back though and she stopped. She waited the ten obligatory seconds it would take for him to call her back. But he did not. Not knowing what she was waiting for and hating herself for being so willing, Christine left. His music swelled around him as Erik stood alone on a perfect night in Paris.


	16. The Emancipation

The Emancipation

**A/N: Thank you to all my loyal readers for holding out for my story (if you are all still there, that is). Moving has been so stressful; I was without the Internet for more than 2 weeks. However, I did keep working on the story and I have two chapters uploaded for you. Enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think.**

He had always walked alone but had wondered what it would be like to one day have a companion. Would he hold her small hand in his large one, his masculinity overwhelming her tiny fingers and buttery palm? Or would they walk as individuals, both in step with one another but a gap of thick air and pulsing energy between them? Would both feel the need to clasp hands and walk as one or would they be content to walk closely, occasionally brushing fingertips or accidentally treading into the other's path in a brook of unsteadiness? Would Erik welcome another shadow close to his or would he be startled? What did Christine walk like anyway? He imagined she had a strong, steady gait and walked at a graceful, clipped pace. But perhaps she ambled along leisurely, one of those walkers who often gazed around wonderingly, oblivious to crowds of people trying to hurry their way past. Maybe Christine wouldn't be able to keep up, forever a few steps behind. Would they walk in silence? And of which variety: the kind with words unneeded and a well-worn comfort of being with one another; or the kind which was like a newborn colt, awkward and striving for balance. Would they walk together at all? It was normal to walk and talk and laugh together, but what did either of them know about normal.

Seeing her last night had affected him. As the gala of socialites had whirled below him in a dervish of reds and blues and golds, he had watched them with a smug grin, all the while playing commentary in his head.

_This one was pigeon-chested and tried to hide it with a ridiculously overbearing string of glittering jewels. Her husband looked bored and uninterested. In fact, he looked far more interested in a redheaded woman with black arched eyebrows and a pearly grin. His wife prattled on endlessly, keeping a protecting arm around her husband. Affair, he had surmised with a snort. The rich always were looking for happiness in the wrong places, and, being as foolish as they were, paid heed to the rules of society more than their own thoughts. If they had any._

He grew bored with the crowd and was immediately struck with coiled tension in his stomach. Anticipation, nervousness, a complete lack of belief in his own abilities – they all assaulted him at once and he felt the bile begin to rise in his throat. Turning away from the dark corner he had been lurking in, he began to hurriedly rush away, needing to find a place to hide, to vomit and to expel the raging butterflies in his gut. And then he saw her. There, as the sweat broke on his brow and the blood rushed to his head and a spot of dizziness made him groggy, she appeared as a vision in black lace, frothing scarlet taffeta and red lips. She was stunning, a black widow spider. She was at his opera.

He walked hurriedly past the gossiping nobles who paid no heed to a man dressed in black and sporting a black cap tilted over his right eye. He had followed her and felt the anticipation of the night's unfolding promise abandon him. He was caught up in the chase now; he had missed it. It thrilled him, made him predatory and in control.

He had stood on the rooftop after she had fled for a long time. He did not bother to stay for the rest of his opera; whether they accepted his art or not had no bearing on him now. _Not that it ever did,_ he chided himself.

Anger flooded him; anger for the stupid herd of nobles below him, clapping and oohing and awing in all the right places, never a cough or hurrah out of place. _Sheep, lambs, stupid cows,_ he raged.

He was off, summoning his carriage to carry him to his hotel. He was always short but necessary with his servants, but tonight was different. He merely mumbled in a harsh growl and threw absent change at his charges before raging to his room to drink himself numb.

The bottle of brandy stared back at him, taunting. If he would drink it, he would lose himself, forget the rage and become a stilted automaton. He would cease to feel, cease to think. But he was sure to be encapsulated by its sweet deception, and his dreams would be nightmares – and more than usual. Every breath he had stilled and every heart he had stopped would come back to him in a realism that caused him to scream. It felt real because it had been.

He picked up the bottle and watched it as he felt his resolve crumble. He hurled the brandy across the room with a roar.

Erik collapsed on the bed and gathered his head in his hands, rocking slightly_. Christine. Why, Christine? Why return to me when I am so close …_

His train of thought halted for he was deceiving himself. He had not been close to forgetting her. Tonight, he had seen her, _really_ seen her and known she was unhappy. Her smiles rang with a falseness he did not recognize as did her conversation. She spoke to Meg in short sentences, revealing while concealing her truth simultaneously. It had been subtle, and he was uncertain if Meg had picked up on her change in demeanor, but he knew Christine. More than anything, he knew her.

The brandy no longer an option and sleep a long way away, he was forced to think. He often thought too much.

……………………………………..

"Raoul, I think perhaps I might be with child."

She said it with such frankness and earnestness that Raoul was taken aback. He did not react, but simply stared.

Christine was lying. They had come home from the opera, all the while a terrible argument had sprung up between them.

"What did you think of the opera?" Raoul asked his lips tight. She had been late again, unapologetic, had simply said, "I was in the ladies room."

"It was … different," she replied, her cheeks colouring. She gazed off, caught up in the memory of Erik's thumb softly trailing her rouge across her lips. _His lips …_

He had lost her again, and Raoul sighed in frustration. _The play was different,_ she _was different. The girl he had fallen in love with, the girl whose entire life had been taken up by music, now had so little to say about music._

"Hmmm, I thought it was a little too brash. And the … sensuality was overblown. But the music was fantastic. I particularly liked the arrangement in the second act."

Christine's head whipped around at his words and Raoul trailed off. _At last he had her attention._

"You thought it was too sensual?" Christine queried a note of irritation in her voice.

"Yes, I thought it improbable that Bella would move so quickly from her husband to another lover. She was an inconsistent woman, beguiled by the foolishness of her own heart." He stopped and bit his lip in consternation. "No woman with self-respect and love of her husband would play to two men at the same time. She hurt them both as a result of her ardour."

"But it was not ardour," Christine said in a rush of breath. Suddenly, Raoul's words piqued her and she felt the brimming of passion inspired by a clash of opinions spoil her blood. "She _loved_ Marco."

"And not her husband? What madness on the part of Giacomo drove her to treat him as some dispensable piece of trash?" Raoul was excited now, and his voice rose slightly but he kept the look of brooding consternation on his face.

Christine gaped at him. "Trash? You cannot help who you love, Raoul. Or do I need to remind you." With that, she turned away from him and folded her arms. She knew she had hit a nerve but did not care.

"What is that supposed to mean, Christine?"

"It means exactly what I said it means."

"Jesus, Christine, must you always bring up the past?" It was his turn to refuse her his eyes. He felt the excitement of battle leave him and felt only sadness and anger.

"What? What past? I did not speak of the past, Raoul, it was you who made such inference," she replied hotly, guilt hammering her onward. Before she could stop it, the caustic words were spilling forth. "How many times must I tell you I did not love him? Why must you let your jealousy get the best of you all these years? He was a part of me. I cannot let that go, but you continue to prompt it, because of ego."

Raoul stiffened. "It is not jealousy, Christine. Do not pin this on me. I do not know why you have started acting this way after four years of normalcy. All of a sudden, things changed and you refuse to acknowledge it."

"Perhaps it is you who have changed." The words ran off her tongue in a chill that settled into her heart.

They had fought for an hour, going back and forth between accusations and turnabout. Raul implored his love for her which she refused to accept, only spurring on his anger. Then she would cry and he would hold her and she would tell him over and over she loved him. But then the tears dried up and so did her warm words. She became distant, falling into her past worlds, all worlds that existed without Raoul. She thought of Erik as she and Raoul made love. The next day, she made her announcement.

"How – how do you know? I mean, Christine I am so – was it last night? When did you figure this out? This is fantastic! Christine?"

For a moment, she was silenced by his happiness and the lie churned her stomach like bad food. Faced with his pleading eyes expecting her response, she replied, "I just know. I can feel it." Her voice was weak, so weak. He embraced her and a tear slid down her cheek. Raoul mistook her tears for happiness.

Alone on her balcony, she felt less than whole. She knew she had changed – at least, her façade had. Worse, her feelings for Raoul had not changed. She still loved him. His love for her cut her deep instead of healing her wounds. Seeing Erik again had forced her to acknowledge what she had been holding back.

_I just want Raoul to be happy and to love me. I want to love him. That I feel for another means nothing._ She sighed, for it was easier to lie to others than to herself. She did not know how long she could keep up her lie about being pregnant, but she hoped it would help. Even if it was a lie, it might bring her and Raoul closer and banish Erik from her thoughts forever. _Maybe I will become pregnant_, she thought hopefully. _Maybe I will one day arise from this waking nightmare an innocent once more. I will wake up and my betrayal will have vanished and all my guilt will dissipate. A memory, a fiction. Maybe that's what will become of this mess I have done unto myself._

Yes, lies were a comfort.

Christine was startled by a knock at the door and turned to see a servant bearing a silver platter with an envelope perched precariously on its surface. Andre bowed slightly, and extended the letter to her with a gloved hand. She thanked him sweetly, and he left without a word.

The envelope was made of plain parchment and bore no discernible symbol or writing. Puzzled, Christine opened the envelope and withdrew a crisp letter.

……………………..

Erik stood outside the Giry household and rapped on the door. He was nervous but his determination outweighed his expectancy. He had a plot and a purpose, the symptoms of a scheming mind lacking social boundaries. The thought made him smirk.

Madame Antoinette Giry opened the front door of her estate to a familiar face – or lack thereof. There he was, properly attired, smartly polished and perfectly poised, the right side of his face obscured by a gleaming white mask. If Madame Giry was surprised to see him, she hid it well.

"Antoinette," Erik said easily, her name rolling off his tongue like caramel. "Pleasant to see you once more."

Madame Giry nodded stiffly, holding the door ajar without saying a word or shifting her weight. Erik studied her and saw the years of practicing hiding one's feelings in her unwavering façade. She had always been a master at hiding her emotions and keeping herself in check, something he admired and had cultivated in her stead. But she was not perfect. The nervous twitch under her left eye and the slight, infinitesimal quirk of her lips, drawn together a touch too tightly, gave her away. But her eyes, steely blue green orbs of judgment that burned through him now still held the same affecting shame on his person and immediately he was uncomfortable. He lifted his chin and squared his jaw, giving her the most rakish of grins.

"Will you invite me in, Madame, or have your manners escaped you along with your years?"

Antoinette opened the door more widely at his words with a final hardened glance at his arrogant countenance and stepped aside. "I see you still possess the same charming repertoire, Erik," she quipped sharply.

Erik chuckled darkly. He knew there was a reason he liked this woman.

As he stepped inside the house, he took in the no-nonsense décor and minimalist design. Antoinette had never been one for frilly accoutrements. "This place suits you. Or perhaps you suit it."

"Thank you," she said with a tight smile, her voice calm and controlled. "It lacks the drama of the theatre, but perhaps that is for the best." She levelled him with a steady gaze, one whose meaning was not lost on Erik. A moment of silence passed between them in which all pretences were dropped.

Antoinette turned on her heel briskly and walked into the sitting room at the end of the hall beside the small, tidily kept kitchen. With all the purpose of a nursemaid attending to a wounded patient, she poured herself and Erik two glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter and handed one to Erik delicately. She then gathered her skirts purposefully, alighted on a simple chair in front of the bay window and folded her hands quietly in her lap. He followed suit and settled into a chair opposite but immediately felt as though he lacked the quiet grace of the woman before him. She gave him the slightest of nods, a silent acquiescence to his purpose and he swallowed. _She never ceases to intimidate, even with the smallest and simplest of gestures_, he thought.

Erik was lulled into a thoughtful stupor, having lost his nerve in the wake of her absolute acceptance. Seeing his trepidation, Antoinette offered him the kindest of words. "Erik," she spoke steadily, lacking the soft, often silly whisper of most women. "Why have you come here?"

Erik sighed, grateful though he was for her breaking the breach of silence. Gathering his charm, he laughed it off, saying, "Can't an old friend visit another old friend without being interrogated?"

Antoinette gazed at him as if from afar (farther than the mere four feet they were parted) and replied, "Many thought you were dead."

"Did you?"

"It does not matter what I think. You are here, but the question is why."

"Madame Giry, I have not been dead, as you can see." He cleared his throat, and his voice dropped. "I need a favour"

"You cannot fool me, Erik," she interrupted sharply. "You send no word for years and now you come upon my door as if the passage of time has not gone by." For the first time, he saw emotion in her eyes and heard it in her voice. She was angry, but she was pleading. "No one knew what happened to you. You could have been dead."

"But I am not, Antoinette," he said with growing exasperation, "Clearly, I am here in front of you."

"Yes," she said quietly. "_Now_. But for a while, you were not."

"What matter is it to you anyhow," he muttered.

"God, Erik, do you ever cease to see beyond your own actions, your own intents?" As her voice rose, so did her body. She stood over him now, her fists balled and a slight quiver shaking her slim frame.

Rising to meet her glare, he returned it with a steely resolve. "My, my, you act as though you and God had any worry as to whether I drew my next breath when we both know you did not stop _them_. Like a mob after Frankenstein," he spat. The coldness of his words hit Madame Giry like a slap across the face.

"You fool, you selfish, pitiful fool," she murmured, shaking her head in resignation. She took one of his hands in her own. The gesture surprised Erik. She did not need to say that she had always been there for him, so she just said what he needed to hear. "You were wrong."

Her warm hand enclosing his took him aback and immediately he was ashamed. Turning from her eyes, eyes that spoke the truth he was so reluctant to face, he stared out the bay window into nothingness. He had been wrong in dragging her into his plans to capture Christine; to blame her now did not give him Christine. He needed her now, if only to fulfill his wishes. "Forgive me," he said quietly, mustering up every ounce of sincerity he could fake.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. She looked at him, strong, hard, and he knew this would be a tough battle to win. It was not that he did not respect Madame Giry; in fact, he knew that he possessed something close to caring for the ballet mistress. As much as he was capable of anyway, he thought.

Before she could speak, he motioned for them to sit down again. Once they were seated, he began: "I need your help." Sparing very few details, he told her of the past few years, from his capture to his success across Europe as a composer. He did not speak of Christine's involvement. Once he had finished, Antoinette, holding a hand to her face and looking worn and sad, simply sighed. She did not speak for many moments. Finally, she said, "That is all very terrible Erik, but what is it that you want from me?"

She did not need to say more, for he knew she was sorry for his ordeal. But Madame Giry was a woman who spoke honestly and without piety. He never earned her pity and for that was grateful. He did not want her to go one about how sorry she was for him. That had always made him ill, or worse, irate.

"I want, my dear, what you helped me to get many years ago and failed." Erik was eerily motionless now and his eyes burned green into her own. It was with all seriousness that he spoke. Right away, she was angry.

"No. No, I will not help you."

"Yes you will."

"She is happy now," Antoinette nearly shouted, growing more and more furious at Erik's nonchalance. "Leave her be. She is not yours."

"But she was." Erik's eyes swept over Antoinette's body lasciviously and for a moment fear ran through the older woman. When he met her eyes again, she knew he was telling the truth. Easing back into the chair, she studied him, the anger still apparent in her gaze.

"What do you mean?" It was barely a question.

"I told you I escaped, but that was a lie. Christine's maid stumbled upon my poor, unfortunate carcass," he said bitter sweetly, "and informed the Vicomtess of my existence. It was Christine who broke into my cage and killed my captor."

"You _lie_."

"I do not," he hissed, his eyes practically crackling with energy. "She took me back to her summer home while her husband was away. It was so easy. She was filled with fear, some kind of sin. And guilt. I had her before the week was over."

Stunned, Antoinette said nothing, only stared into Erik's face, half porcelain and half mask. He spoke with arrogance and a sexual mastery that was not really there. If his words were true, and she doubted that he lied, Erik would not be so lasses-faire about making love to Christine. He wanted something, that was clear.

Taking a sip of brandy, she regarded him coolly. "And what role am I to play in this little drama?" She spoke each word evenly, as if each held its own weight that had to be distributed respectively.

"She is not happy." Antoinette did not bother to deny his words. "I want to make her happy. With me."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, fear beginning to crawl into her consciousness.

"I am going to do nothing." The meaning of his words slid between them like a velvet curtain and Antoinette was lost. The cool veneer fell from her face and she positively scowled.

"Tell me why I should help you," she scathed, "Why should I help you destroy a young woman whose only mistake was caring for you?"

He regarded her with scorn from beneath his thick lashes and Antoinette shivered despite herself. He walked over to the window once more and stared out, gathering his thoughts. "I had lived in the Opera Populaire for longer than I can remember. But you, you brought me there." He paused and looked at her, baring what resembled a smile. Antoinette did not mistake his meaning, but refused to be tumbled by guilt. He turned around again.

"In all the years I existed at the opera house as an apparition, a nightmarish figment of a child's imagination, the so-called 'O.G.', never once did anyone wander into my dwelling without my knowledge. Anyone who did find themselves within the inner bowels of the opera house soon became so confused and lost within its labyrinthine twists and turns that they would give up before ever reaching the Phantom of the Opera." He laughed, but it was not a true laugh.

Madame Giry crossed her arms, growing increasingly agitated. She bit her lip and turned away from him.

Sensing movement, the Phantom soundlessly spun on his heel and faced her back.

"So it is unlikely that a person who had never once been in the basements of the Opera Populaire would find themselves in my lair – and so quickly at that." When Antoinette did not more or speak, he walked around her to meet her eyes. But she would not look at him. Gripping her chin, he forced her to look at him. She looked like fire. He searched her face and saw guilt, anger, sorrow.

"Did you betray me?"

"Yes," she said quietly. Tearing his hand from her face, she spat, "But it was the right thing to do. He loved her."

"But she does not love him!" Erik roared. "He does not love her the way I do, the way I crave her! That selfish bastard -- what chance did I have with _any_ woman? She could have loved me. She could have loved me …" he trailed off, his voice ragged with emotion. Gathering his courage, he looked into her eyes and was surprised to see them rimmed in red and spouting tears. "She still could," he finished quietly.

"Please."

Erik was not Antoinette's son. Truth be told, they were fairly close in age although Antoinette had always been regarded as the matriarch, an odd sentiment in the least. But then again, what wasn't odd about the Phantom? That a man, abandoned by his mother as a child, would come to love Madame Giry as a son would was no surprise. Nor was the fact that he took every available opportunity to sway her to his will with lies, guilt and deception. It was no surprise that Antoinette gave into Erik time and time again as a worrisome bitch coddles a whining puppy. But Erik was no infantile dog – he had much more cunning and much more bite.

_Please_. One word was enough to break her heart. Had it not been for his eyes, swimming with genuine pleading that made this tall, imposing man resemble a small child, Antoinette would not have broken at the sound of his voice. _I need you_, they seemed to say. Who was she to quell his request?

Knowing it was wrong, knowing she was an accomplice to his sick malice and twisted plot, she sighed. For a moment she remembered her long-dead husband and the way she had shuddered beneath his blows and cried for his forgiveness. Erik did not hit her; he did not need to. He worked a devil's charm with his words.

"What do you want me to do?"

……………………………...

Christine rushed toward the Giry household, letter in hand and butterflies swirling in her gut. The letter had been vague and hurried and the tone was beseeching. Something terrible had happened and Christine better had come quickly. No one was to know, the letter had urged, so Christine had told the footman to drop her off at a local shop a mile from Antoinette's house. So here she was before the front door, quivering with anticipation and bated breath.

She knocked a few times but her knocks went unanswered. Puzzled, Christine began to fret inside, becoming more and more agitated as her calls for entry was met with silence.

_Oh, God, what had happened? Why would she write me to come quick and yet not answer her door?_ Fear beginning to creep into her mind, she hesitantly tried the handle and found the lock unlatched. Even more befuddled, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

For a moment, she just stood there gazing into the dark hallway like a ghost melting into fog. Worry strangled her. "Hello?" came out a scratchy whisper. Feeling foolish as well as frightened, she called out once more. No one answered.

Reluctantly, she stepped into the hallway and listened carefully. The butterflies in her stomach had turned to knots. Her back was up, spine tingling, and every instinct in her body told her to run. A faint banging sound from upstairs quirked her ears and she stood perfectly still. What was it? Straining to hear, she heard it once more, a scratchy kind of clattering.

"Madame? Antoinette, are you there?" Christine stepped forward a few paces so she could see up the winding staircase to the upstairs landing. "Antoinette, it's me, Christine. Are you there?" She took a hesitant step forward and stopped abruptly.

"It's me." Beginning to take the stairs, she called out again. "Are you –?"

A slam behind her stopped her in her tracks. Christine froze. It had sounded like the front door. Whirling around, she could not believe her eyes.

"Erik …What – what are you doing here?"

He did not answer but took her in his arms. Christine was so startled she did not even react, but stood there stiffly, her arms folded in front of her chest and her mouth agape. He brushed a hand through her winding curls and hushed her gently.

"Erik, I don't understand. You came back." Her voice was questioning, worrisome. It broke his heart.

She cried out as the barbiturate entered her bloodstream. The word _why_ was on her parted lips as her body sagged and she sank into his arms. Tossing Christine over his shoulder, Erik turned and left. Madame Giry watched Erik and Christine with the weight of the world on her shoulders.


	17. The Road Less Travelled

The Road Less Traveled

Getting Christine onto the train was easier than Erik expected. The midnight express was sparsely populated; there were very few who saw him carry his limp captive into the private coach he had purchased tickets for that day. If anyone thought it strange that a cloaked man, a black fedora obscuring his features, was toting an unconscious woman in the middle of the night, they did not show it. Perhaps they thought them wed and his bride had simply fallen asleep in the midnight hour_. Oh, how sweet_, they would whisper. _What a gentleman._

Erik felt remorse for what he had done. But this was important; she had to see that he was sorry for what he had done to her and this was the only way. She refused to see him after their encounter at the Paris Opera. What else could he do but force her to see he was sorry, that he loved her?

_I love her._

He did. Being away from her had not rid his mouth of the taste of her lips, nor his eyes from imagining she was everywhere he looked. He had thought of her, thought of her slick warmth encasing him, her hands scratching his back as he sucked the life from her lips. He dreamed of her often, dreamed that she was in his bed for a while. Then she would run off to her husband and he would wake. She was still there, everyday, haunting his every waking moment. _Like a phantom_, he thought wryly.

It was only fair that the gods had punished him by dealing him the same card he had given to Christine. He had enforced Christine's idolization of him, and the cost of that adulation had stripped him of his independence. There she was, singing, talking, crying, moaning his name and he could not rid her from his thoughts. To play God was to endure the penance once he was found out. He had paid dearly.

As the train began its slow chug toward Spain, he rubbed his temple, fatigue settling upon him like a damp blanket. He stripped himself of his cloak and fedora and checked that his wig was still in place. He was dressed as immaculately as ever and knew that he cut an imposing figure, mask or no. Under the cover of his dark veneer, he had anonymity as well as the respect of those few who saw him.

Three hours had passed and they were just east of Bordeaux. The train ride to Madrid was approximately ten hours long. He could only pray Christine would stay under until then.

He was drawn from his thoughts by a small groan. Erik cursed under his breath. When had prayer done any good for him anyway?

Christine was waking and he turned to see her press a hand to her head and gently flutter her eyelashes as consciousness claimed her. Realization dawned on her face as she tried to sit up. Erik was upon her instantly, closing a gloved hand around her mouth. His other hand wrested her left arm behind her back and he leaned in on her right arm so that she was unable to move it. She made a muffled sound of indignant resentment; Erik applied the smallest bit of pressure but it was enough to silence her.

Her eyes positively glowed with anger. She was furious, and her rage blazed out of her brown orbs with an intensity that surprised Erik. Wet and blinking, she stared at him, unrelenting in her absolute hatred for what he had done. Had Erik not placed a hand over her mouth, it was clear that she would not be cooing endearments in his ear. He thought she had never looked so beautiful.

He edged closer to her so that they were both reclined in close proximity on the seat. Erik face was inches from hers now. Christine's eyes flashed in annoyance at his closeness and Erik smiled the smile that infuriated Christine as well as endear her. That impish, arrogant grin Erik employed whenever he knew he had quarried his prey. _A mouse in the grip of a lovesick cat._ He was toying with her and it prickled Christine's skin with lusty anger that only he was able to elicit from her.

"Christine," he began slowly, "I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream."

Christine nodded vehemently, yearning for the chance to scream out for help.

"Do you promise, my love?" Erik asked, loosening his grip on her arm to grasp her hand lovingly, gently massaging her palm and thumbing her wrist. Christine twitched beneath his touch. Her furor was palpable; Erik felt it was as erotic as if she were lying nude under him, accepting his thrusts with glazed eyes and incoherent moans. He felt electric and knew what he had been missing all these months.

Christine practically reverberated under his touch but it was not from want of him, something she hoped Erik would misinterpret. She made her gaze soft and slackened her tight lips, subtly brushing them against his palm. She slid her tongue out and touched him almost imperceptibly. Erik's gaze widened and she knew he had felt it. Her hand bound around his and she leaned into him.

His hand left hers and traveled slowly up her arm with a light kiss of touch. He stared down at her neck, watching the pulse drum under her skin, looked down to her breasts, cupped aptly in her emerald velvet gown. It suited her hair and eyes. He put his hand in place of his eyes and he felt Christine's intake of breath through his gloved hand. He gently grasped the fullness of her breast. He was in control once more.

"Christine," his voice was husky, low. "I know you better than that."

He dropped his hand from her chest and groped behind him for something Christine could not see. Quickly, he retrieved a silk scarf and tied it around Christine's mouth, pressing his body against hers so she could not escape. Curses flew from her gagged lips and she flailed against him futilely. He pried her legs apart with his knees and sank down to his knees before her, making sure to keep a tight grip on her hands, which he clasped together at her lap. Her hair was mussed from the struggle and her eyes even more wild and furious than before. They glistened with tears – _tears of hate_, he recalled bitterly.

"I do not want to do this to you, but you give me no choice. Let me speak and then I will release you. You can do what you want afterward." She trembled slightly, but gave a curt nod despite her anger for him. He bore his eyes into hers and she stared back defiantly.

"I love you," he said simply. Disgusted, Christine turned her head from him, unable to look at him while he lied.

"Christine. Christine, look at me."

She looked back at him, hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"You would not listen. You would not – you were always so stubborn, so foolish. I only wanted – " he stopped, surprised at his lack of eloquence. Her silent resentment unsteadied him, but he pressed on, determined to say what he needed.

"That night at the opera house," he tried again. She looked away briefly, shame coloring her features. "I kissed you and you were not unwilling. I kissed you while your husband was sitting in the audience below us, listening to _my_ music."

_So this was it_, Christine thought. _He wanted to gloat, the arrogant bastard_.

"I do not say this out of ego, Christine." She was shocked. _Did he know her thoughts now too? _"I want to prove to you that you cannot deny me. You cannot deny what you feel for me and, no, it is not merely lust. You know that in your heart."

He shifted a little, noting that she had become more at ease, despite the look of wariness in her eyes.

"I do not expect you to love me. Not yet. I have done many terrible things to you that atonement alone is not enough. I can only beg your forgiveness each and every day of my life and even then it will not be enough." Christine snorted delicately.

"Yes, I know how I must sound," he smiled that smile and Christine relaxed a little more. "But you remain unconvinced." He got up then and sat beside her, his hands never leaving her wrists. He leaned closer, unsettling Christine. Her discomfort at his nearness was flagrant but Erik paid no heed. He fed off of everything she gave him.

"Do you want me?" His question, spoken in that low, lilting quality Christine had fallen in love with, made her stiffen. She simply stared.

"Nod yes or no. Do you want me … physically, sexually. DO you feel lust?"

Embarrassed, she flushed and gave him a look of disgust. How could he speak to her so inappropriately? It was lascivious, revolting … and a little exciting.

Inside, Christine was in turmoil. She had to answer him and to appease him would lead to her safety, yet she knew he could read a lie in her eyes should she deny him. There was no use in denying or lying; they were the same omission anyway. She nodded.

Erik received her answer without a flicker of acknowledgment in his brow.

"Do you think about me?"

Her answer came faster this time.

"When you think of me, are you guilty?"

Tears filled her eyes. She nodded.

"Does Raoul know the root of your guilt?"

She shook her head.

"Do you think of me when you make love to him?"

A tear, another yes.

"Does he touch you the way I do?"

No.

"Do you hate yourself because of what you feel for me?"

She could not look at him any longer. Fixing her gaze on the door, she nodded once more.

"Are you happy?"

She was not.

"Do you love me?"

She turned her head and met his eyes. They were hopeful but there was a steeliness there that had not been present the night she had run away from him with Raoul. Erik let go of her hands and untied her gag. He did not touch her, but waited patiently for her answer. Christine rubbed her lips absently and then folded her hands in her lap. She studied them as if they were the pyramids of Egypt. She glanced up at him and spoke honestly.

"I do not know."

He regarded her in thoughtful repose, his masked face betraying none of his emotions.

"Where are we going, Erik?" she asked softly.

_We_, he thought. "We are going to my home in Spain."

She was startled by his answer, but this was Erik. He was never static. "Why are you taking me there?"

"Because," he began smoothly, "I want your happiness."

"You cannot hold my salvation over my head to earn my love, Erik. When will you learn that?"

Her words baffled him and he was speechless for a moment. Finally he replied, "I know no other way." He took her hand and a deep breath. "You have no reason to trust me and I understand I've earned your anger. But I love you. I think of you and nothing absolves me of that. When we get to Spain, you are free to do as you like."

"Do you promise?" Christine asked, still unsure of his intentions.

He grinned and Christine relented. "You have my word," he replied, bringing her hand to his lips. Christine watched him rapturously, wonderingly.

He got to his feet and went to the door. Bewildered, Christine asked where he was going.

"To get us a meal of some kind. I wager you are quite hungry after your – sleep."

She looked at him knowingly and crossed her arms. Slightly embarrassed, Erik ran a hand through his hair. "Right. I will return."

Alone, Christine surveyed her surroundings. She was not surprised at its opulence; after all, Erik did enjoy the finer things in life. The coach was rather spacious and peppered with luxurious wood, fabric and décor. Christine frowned. She liked it. It was rather – well, it was rather beautiful.

She eyed the door suspiciously. She knew escape would be fruitless at this point; after all, where could she go on a moving train? What she did know was that she had to escape from him. His words had undone her and she had admitted that she was unsure if she loved him. Her heart was strong in the wake of his admission and she wanted desperately to obey it. But they were just words. She did not believe that he would let her leave once they had arrived.

But if he did?

She sighed. Why was everything with Erik so complex? He was unpredictable, wildly emotional, hard-headed and had an absolutely monstrous humor. He was stubborn and sarcastic and reclusive. He was warm one moment, with a delicate tenderness that could break her heart and enliven her soul; in the next moment, he was harsh and brutal, completely animalistic and ridiculously unreasonable. He was melodramatic, terribly hateful of others and very rarely laughed. She had all these reasons to dislike him, to simply bar him from her life forever. But he stayed in her thoughts, quietly eating away at her until she could be near him. No matter what she felt for him at that moment, having him near eased the troubled voice in her head. This unsettled her.

Was it possible they were soul mates? Christine had believed that Raoul was her soul mate, a silly girl's dream of a fanciful romantic iconicity. A little wiser, she believed her and Raoul were lovers, husband and wife, bound to each other for life. She belonged to him. So was it possible that her soul could belong to another?

The question of who she was aligned to plagued her to the point of madness. There was nothing worse than the unknown, this was true. She could not deny Erik held a part of her, more than just her body, which she had convinced herself of before. This was not five years ago, he was not her teacher. This was not even one year ago. Time went on and still the answer became more muddled.

But where did her happiness belong to? All her life, her happiness had been tied up with one man or another. She had also had the opera and her singing to bring her personal joy. Months away from Raoul had allowed her to discover more about herself and she had found many things she had not been able to express as a child. Her nightly introspective had not been all about Erik. It had also given her time to be alone to think about who she was, who she wanted to be. She wanted to be a whole woman, and the role of Vicomtess had stifled her as Erik's reign over her had controlled her. Being so wrapped up in idyllic love had not prepared her for reality. Erik re-entering her life had shaken her. Now that he loved her, would she change? Should she even give him the chance?

Erik returned with a tray that gave off the most intoxicating aroma: chicken, potatoes and carrots with a bottle of champagne. Immediately, Christine's mouth watered and she hesitantly abandoned her thoughts. _No more could be done for now. _

They ate in relative silence. Erik watched her eat, fascinated by the simple act. She was voracious, but was trying to act ladylike in his presence, which made him smile. She noticed him staring and asked "What?" between a mouthful of roast chicken.

"Nothing, you just – if you are hungry, eat. Do not put on airs for me, Vicomtess." He smirked and Christine rolled her eyes, taking a large bite out of the leg in response. He chuckled quietly, and resumed eating. Christine tried to hide her smile.

When they were finished, Christine could feel sleep creeping up upon her again. She had noticed Erik's own fatigue through stolen glances during dinner. He tried to stifle a yawn, but was unsuccessful. He loosened his collar and undid his cuff buttons. He removed his waistcoat and shoes.

"The sleeping area is in the adjoining room," he said, all of a sudden businesslike. "You can get undressed there if you like." Christine noticed that stubble had begun to accumulate on his face. The slight muss of his hair and lackadaisical undress was quite becoming, if unusual, on him. She did not notice the mask, only his eyes which always managed to entrance her. He looked good.

Christine nodded and exited quickly without saying goodnight. The room was not a room at all. It was simply a small space with a small closet and a twin size bed. It was quaint, regardless of its size. She undressed without her usual idleness and slipped under the covers. She turned down the candelabra on the nightstand beside her bed and sighed.

Despite her tiredness, she could not find sleep and tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Frustrated, she arose and tentatively opened the adjoining door to Erik's compartment. Peeking inside, she saw that he was not asleep but was staring out the window, his head resting in one hand. He was wearing a dressing gown. It was the same one she had bought him only a year ago. She coughed lightly and he turned around.

"I – I can't sleep," she said dumbly.

"Alright," Erik said, unsure of how to respond.

Shifting from foot to foot, she said in one breath, "Would you mind sleeping beside me? I find it hard to sleep by myself since …" she trailed off, unwilling to finish. She took a deep breath and blurted, "The baby." She did not add the other cause of her insomnia, which was the man before her.

Erik stood slowly and walked to the room without a word. He waited for Christine to climb in before approaching the bed. She was huddled underneath the covers, her eyes searching his. He stepped into the bed tentatively, shedding his robe as he went. Christine blushed at his nearly naked form, but said nothing. He turned and rummaged in the armoire for something Christine could not see. When he turned back, he relinquished a violet velvet scarf. Christine was about to ask him what he intended for the scarf, when he was upon her, gripping her wrists and thrusting them above her head.

"What are you –?"

"Trust is a tree, Christine. It takes time to grow."

His simply profundity sounded ridiculous to her ears and she gave him a scowl in return.

"A tree, Erik? Could you not come up with a better metaphor than that?"

He chuckled at her derisive tone and placed a hand on her abdomen. "I never claimed to be Confucius."

She smiled despite herself. Biting her lip, she became suddenly aware of his hand on her body. Coughing slightly, she turned away, sure that her cheeks were a maddening shade of pink.

"Please do not touch me, Erik," she said coldly.

Furor gripped Erik. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. With his other hand, he trailed a pattern up her belly to her breast in a sickeningly slow ascent. Looking into her eyes, he watched them grow wide and glassy in pleasure and listened as her breath caught. He moved closer to her lips, which were now parted invitingly, all the while glaring hotly into her wet eyes.

"Please, don't," she quavered. She was lying and Erik laughed under his breath.

"Say it again," he said huskily, caressing her nipple through the thin fabric of her silk sheath. She arched upwards, a slight moan escaping her lips.

"Please," she finished, her eyes rolling upward.

"Yes?" he asked, kissing the corner of her mouth softly, making her skin tingle.

Meeting his gaze, she replied flatly and not without a shudder, "Please stop."

Kissing her neck and feeling her body jerk beneath his, he chuckled into her soft flesh.

"As you wish, Vicomtess." Turning away from her abruptly, he faced the other wall, praying for his erection to fade away.

Suddenly lost without his contact, Christine felt empty. She curled her legs closer to her body, hoping to fill the void. Suddenly, she felt foolish for quelling his advances.

You are married, she reminded herself. Forcing her eyes shut, she made herself picture his handsome figure in her mind, his smile lighting up her memory. Still, the memory of Raoul was not enough to cure her of the reality of the man in her present.

Christine drifted off shortly thereafter, but sometime in the night she had wedged herself into Erik's arms. Erik did not mind.


	18. The Dead

The Dead

There were sounds. White noise, mostly. The creak of a door opening begrudgingly on its hinges, the occasional chirp of a bird, and the ocean.

_Wait – the ocean?_ Christine was slowly pulled out of unconsciousness by the soft flurry of sound travelling through her ears and tickling the nerves in her brain. _Wake up,_ they said. _It's morning._

Before she opened her eyes, she saw through the pink curtains of her closed lids, and felt the faint drumming inside her head alerting her that something was amiss. Her hand twitched and she opened her eyes.

Blurred vision coupled with the persistent pounding of a headache and the general grogginess that follows any waking sleeper like fog descending upon a graveyard made for immediate, dazed confusion. _It smells good_, she thought druggedly, _like pine wooden floors and impatiens. _ She was immediately reminded of sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace as a child and watching her father play the violin as one would stroke an adored lover. It had always smelled like pine, and her father, of light sweat and pungent spice. She didn't know why she had thought of that.

Stretching lazily, she found that her hands would not move. Looking up, she was dismayed and a little angered to find that her wrists were bound to the headrest_. Cherry mahogany – this isn't mine. Velvet scarves – Erik. He had wanted to tie me up last night. Erik drugged me, I was on a train. He said he loves me. We ate dinner. He said he would take me to – to Spain?_

More alert now as realization dawned, she glanced around the room, quickly scanning the rich tapestry, furniture and open bay window swathed in cream gauzy curtains. Outside was a yard flanked by giant gardenia trees that loomed like shepherds to a flock of shrubs and flowers below. The land seemed to go on forever. _Erik had done well for himself_. She noted the high, impenetrable fencing that was visible and was reminded that some things never change.

Glancing down at herself, she blushed. She was clothed – if clothed even describe her state of dress – in a short silk negligee that dipped low and rode high. She remembered wearing stockings, but they were missing. She briefly recalled her first night meeting the Phantom; her stockings had gone missing then too. She had thought she may have kicked them off in her sleep. Now she was not so sure.

When Christine had lived at the Opera Populaire, she remembered the exact moments when she had learned about sex. Meg, in particular, had been able to get a hold of erotic novels, postcards and gossip. Christine knew about fetishes and had thought them vile and unchristian. Now she was not so sure.

"Sick bastard," she muttered under her breath, twisting fruitlessly at her bindings, her hips digging into the mattress. "Ties me up, takes _my_ stockings – " _And_ _who knows what else_, she finished wordlessly. She jerked hard on the scarves, but they did not give. She let out a frustrated groan, both at the futility of her situation and the flimsy little nightgown that was riding up her thighs.

There came a chuckle from somewhere unseen.

Turning her head in the direction of the laughter, she set her eyes on Erik, lying back in an elaborately furnished arm chair. His posture was relaxed but resolute, and his appearance sleek and dark. She noticed his mask last.

"Sick bastard, Christine? You might want to rethink your tongue as long as you are under my roof." He smiled at her then, a Cheshire grin that brought color to her cheeks and words.

"Under your roof? If I do recall our conversation yesterday – or God knows when I was last conscious – you said I was free to go once were arrived in Spain. I am not choosing to be here, Erik. Untie me and your roof will not be any concern of mine."

He laughed again. _So Christine had learned bargaining and idle threats in her dull marriage to the Viscomte. How interesting_.

"I may be many things, Christine, but a liar I am not." He rose without a sound and approached the bed, each footfall making Christine's heart flutter like a fish out of water. She became even more aware of her lack of clothing and could feel her cheeks grow hot. _Dammit, Christine, hold it together. Do not let him affect you, it's just Erik._

_Just Erik? No one but Erik draws these feelings out of you, you silly girl. God, just please do not touch me, Erik. _

Even as she thought it, she knew it was impossible. He had to touch her to loosen the bonds. She hoped with all her heart his touch would not alight in her a raging fire, all consuming, making her mind blank and her blood rush. Under his skin, she was in his control. When she was a child, she had hosted pretend tea parties with her friend, Marie. Christine always initiated the toasts as well as where every one should sit (everyone being hers and Marcia's teddy bears). One day, Marcia had moved Claire, Christine's favourite bear, and put her own in its place. Christine had become so furious with Marcia that she had thrown her friend's bears in the mud and stomped off in tears. Her father had given her a right spanking and scolded her about not sharing. She never did it again, but neither did Marcia.

She still hated losing control. But God if it didn't feel good.

She closed her eyes as his hands descended on her wrists. He did not linger. The scarves were off in a flash and Christine was surprised to find she was disappointed. Opening her eyes, she found the room empty, with only the whoosh of air as the door closed occupying her senses.

Frustrated with Erik as well as herself (now that she was free, she did not know what to do with herself), Christine sat immobile on the bed. She sat there for many moments before she realized she was not alone.

A woman stood in the doorway dressed in the simple, drab uniform of a servant. Christine gasped in surprise and then felt embarrassed; both for her reaction and her lack of dress. The maid did not say anything, just stared. Christine immediately felt defensive. _Why?_

"Ahem," she coughed humbly.

The girl seemed to shake loose of her trance. "I am sorry, Madame. I am not used to the master having company."

"Mmmm."

There was another awkward silence. Christine tightened her arms about her chest.

"I am to tell you," the maid began, slowly, as if choosing each word carefully, "That dinner is to be served in a mere moment." Suddenly she was in action, crossing the room to the armoire and snapping it open to reveal many beautiful dresses. Christine was struck with a sense of déjà vu.

"You must be kidding me."

"Pardon?"

"I, uh … Did the 'master' say what I was to wear as well?"

"… No."

"Thank you, miss …?"

"Juanita."

"Juanita. Thank you."

When she was alone in the room, Christine could not help but laugh bitterly under her breath. So he had arranged some whimsical Beauty and the Beast scenario. She would have no part of this. _Get dressed, wear something durable and not too flashy. You do not want anyone to notice you more than is necessary. Yes. So I should leave right away before he has time to notice that I have not arrived at dinner. But how? The bay window – does it open onto a balcony? Yes, yes it does. Can I climb down – no, not without a rope or some kind of apparatus. Where am I going to find a goddamned rope? Calm, Christine, get dressed first. Yes._ She did not bother to lace herself into a proper corset, but found it was unnecessary anyway. The plain, beige dress she selected was equipped with a tiny, ornate buttons up the back as well as ribbing inside the dress that allowed for support and shape. Erik wanted only the latest fashions for her. She almost laughed.

It took a few minutes of awkward struggling, but she got herself into the dress properly. She put her hair up with the hair pins Erik had kindly – _no, stop – not kindly_ – stocked at the ivory vanity table by the north wall. She fussed at the mirror for a few seconds before deciding she looked decidedly drab. She was dismayed that she did not want to look that way. Not around him.

_Now, to the balcony, check one more time. Wait! The lattice – I can climb down the lattice! It will be tricky, you'll have to watch the hem of your dress. But, yes, I can do this. Don't put all your weight on it first, test it with one foot. Ahh, it's pretty steady. Only the best for Erik. Forget about him, now grasp the lattice with both hands. Now, can it handle my weight? Oh, God, I'm scared. Wait – it's steady. Now swing your foot – good. Hold on tight. Oh, please, God, let me make it safe. Let me make -- _

She screamed out as a hand snaked around her wrist. She lost her footing and almost went plunging toward the earth. Her right hand had a tenuous grip on the lattice, but someone was holding her. Someone with fiery green eyes.

"Erik!"

He did not say anything, just took her wrists in his powerful hands and jerked her upward, careful to watch the swing of her body at the sudden movement. One hand holding her wrist, the other went to her arm pit and dug into her ribs, making Christine wince. He moved quickly to grip the other side and pulled her up gracelessly. She fell into his chest forcefully, her nose bumping into his collarbone. As soon as she was standing, he released her and she stood there dumbly.

"Oh." She backed away from him, rubbing her nose which throbbed painfully from the impact. She was sure it was red. She looked like an idiot. _Don't look at him, oh God, don't look in his eyes._

He was on her at once, dragging her by her arm into the bedroom, throwing her on the bed with a force that stole her breath and knocked her heart against her chest painfully. The place where he'd grabbed her arm hurt and she rubbed it, tears stinging her eyes_. I am so embarrassed, so foolish. Running away like a child. Oh, but you've hurt him. Look at him. I can't. I can't think. He's burning me. Oh God, he's leaving. Come back, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – _"I'm sorry."

He did not stop until the reached the door and then he reached for the knob, but didn't turn it. It took a moment for Christine to register that he had activated the lock. She shrank into the bed, faintly aware of the soft cushions and the luxurious silk sheets. She felt like a woman vulnerable, and did what any female would do: she protected her chest, drew in her head, lowered her eyes and clenched her knees together. _He's going to rape me. He's going to hurt me. _

When his lips crushed hers she let out a sob. The tears broke and she pulled tighter into herself. His hands were on her shoulders, he was sitting on the bed now, so close to her body. She closed her eyes, willed him to go away but knew she was powerless to fight him. If he wanted her, he would take her.

Soft kiss on her neck. His lips were soft, his chin slightly bristly. The stubble grazed her neck, making her shiver. Another kiss, this one on her ear lobe. She could feel his breath, warm, comforting, on her tender flesh of her ear. He was pulling at her hair now – why_? Was he going to hold her down by her hair, like a whore? No, he's pulling out the pins_. Christine's hair fell about her shoulders and she opened her eyes. The anger was gone from Erik's face. He wanted her, but not just to have.

He looked at her wonderingly, reached out a tentative hand to her mouth and touched her bottom lip. He traced it with his finger with the reverence of a priest_. God, she was beautiful._ He drew away. It was her turn to react.

She stared at him now, her eyes dewy and her hair a little wild. She was suddenly conscious of her open mouth and the tingles of pleasure his touch on her lips had elicited. But now he had withdrawn – he stopped. She was shocked to find she didn't want him to.

Her hand at his mask now, the porcelain was cold under her fingers. A stark contrast to the warmth of his finger, of his breath on her earlobe, the warmth between her legs. _Slow like honey, heavy with need, she thought. Don't think. _

Erik closed his eyes as her lips crashed unto his, the salt of her skin in his mouth, the softness of her probing tongue tasting like vanilla. She tasted like vanilla. He wanted to know all of her, but she was prying at his mask, trying to get it off. He turned away, all thoughts of making love to her crashing away. _Why did she have to ruin this? The light was dim, she was sure to see him clearly. She'd see the fissures of broken skin, the swollen flesh that never went down. My right eye – ugly without the mask. Deformed. She can't want me then. Why won't she let me hide behind this mask?_

But her hand was on his face and he winced, expecting her to rip it away like so many years ago. When she didn't, he opened his eyes, shamefaced, and saw her. She was looking at him wonderingly, but offering the same comfort of a caregiver. Of someone who cared. Someone who had to be strong for him because now he was weak. _ I am weak. She wants to be my rock. Let her, let her, let her. _

He did not wince or twitch as she peeled the mask away from his face. His eyes bore into hers as he watched for reaction, hating her all the while. His face remained the same, aloof. She kissed the broken blood vessels beneath the lump of twisted flesh on his cheekbone and Erik nearly sobbed.

They were fierce now, arms entangled around one another. _Can't get close enough_, she thought. _Must get closer_, he thought. There were too many clothes, too many layers between them. With deft hands, he unbuttoned the top few clasps on Christine's dress before giving up and tearing the garment in half. He gave her a lopsided grin of apology and she kissed it away.

She was naked on the bed now and he stood over her, unravelling his tie with purpose. It hit the ground. His black jacket joined it a moment later. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and Christine became impatient. _I want you now. Please_. "Please." She moved to right herself, to tear that silly white fabric from his chest, to stop this game that made her wetter than she ever had been her life, but he held out a hand. _Stop. Wait. We have all night. _

Erik knelt on the floor and drew her legs toward him. He grasped her foot and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. With both hands, he began to rub her slowly, kneading the arch of her foot with powerful hands_. Hands that had murdered_, she thought. _Shut up, just lose yourself in this. _

His hands worked at her flesh, rubbing the ball of her foot, the arch, the heel, the pad, the individual toes, testing the circumference of her shapely foot for reaction. She began to relax, losing the tension in her body she had when he had initially begun to touch her. A tiny sigh let out her mouth as he worked his hands into her arch. Now he was kissing her ankle, the stubble of his chin grazing her calf and making her shiver. He laved his tongue there for a moment and she almost moaned. Erik moved up her leg to her knee. He dipped his sleek head to the inside of her knee and kissed it slowly. Christine wound her hands into the mattress, unable to keep from arching into his touch. But he was so far away.

_Come here, come here, please, up here. Stop, I can't handle anymore_. He continued his slow descent, mindless to her internal pleadings. Tonight was for them. He had ruined their first coupling, passionate and sating as it had been. He had not taken the time to know her body, to feel for that hollow that made her giggle or taste the difference between the skin on her hip and the fleshy softness of her inner thigh. He tasted her thigh now and felt her tremble. She was practically thrashing on the bed. _Was he going to do this? Oh god, I don't even know the word. It's debauched, it's not lovemaking. It's – oh, god, his lips. _

She tasted like nothing he had even felt on his tongue before. It was like honey and – water, but with a heady note he couldn't identify. He laved her a little more roughly, noting that she was that wonderful liquid was lower down her folds. He lathed his tongue from the bottom to the top in a slow torturous sweep that made Christine cry out. _ I own you now, _he thought, _I know where you live_. She clutched his head in her hands, pulling him upward, not wanting him to stop but wanting him on top of her.

The weight of a man. Oh, only a woman can truly appreciate something so exquisite. The gentle crush of his body on top of hers, the comfort and support it offered. It was just his maleness enveloping her small body, her womanhood obscured by his masculine frame. Knowing that he could crush her at any moment but trusting him enough to know he wouldn't. It was bliss and she held him to her for a long moment, staring into his eyes before her pushed at her entrance.

"You're beautiful." Erik had to register that the words had not fallen from his lips but from hers. He narrowed his eyebrows and Christine was afraid he did not believe her. But then he was moving inside her, moving torturously slow, she, raising her hips gently to meet his inquiring thrust. She said yes, answered with a roll of her lower back that caused Erik's eyes to roll into his head.

This was it. There was no turning back. He had taken her from her husband. Her husband – he had felt this. Felt her from the inside, received her thrusts. It angered him. _That fool. I bet he could not even love her right. _He fantasized that Raoul was there, watching their coupling, tears of hate in his eyes. The thought made him smirk. But she was all his. The smirk slipped away.

He did not move for a moment, simply relished the feel of her fluttering walls around his cock. He wanted to come, could feel it building within him_. Breathe, look into her eyes, please her. Please her._ He rolled forward, deeper this time. She was not completely adjusted to him and the feeling caused her to gasp. He began to pull out but she gripped his hips, stopped him. _No, I want all of you. More, all of it. I want you, please._ "Please." She said the word out loud without knowing. They began to rock together.

Slow, languorous, staring into each other eyes when one's eyes would permit. For the feeling of being inside one another was almost too much to see. It made sense to block out a sense and sight seemed logical. With their eyes open, it was too much. It was too real. So Christine and Erik permitted themselves glances, occasional deep gazes that lasted longer than they could count; a short glimpse while they moaned, the pleasure crinkling their brows.

_Kiss me, kiss me._ It was not enough. They tongues mingled, their bodies were closer than could be. Erik drove deep into her and she sobbed into his mouth, like she had earlier. But it was different. It was always different.

Erik came, riding out the wave with his eyes closed and his hips bucking wildly. Christine held on with her legs wrapped tight around his waist, riding out her own orgasm as it rolled though her like a tornado, ferocious and whirling. They fell together into the dark, eyes closed, blackness enveloping them as they spun into a space without stars.

…………………………………..

Raoul put down the note with a steady hand. But somehow, it felt detached – like the phantom limb of a war veteran. His father had once remarked that Raoul had the poise of a stoic, but lacked the steadfast coldness of one. Raoul the Stoic. It had been a joke. He was not warm; in fact, he could feel that coldness creeping into his heart. It frightened him. He had to get away.

"Viscomte de Chagny, your dinner is ready."

For a moment, Raoul racked his mind trying to identify that voice. He was jarred from his thoughts at that voice. It took him a moment to realize who was speaking, and what they had said.

His throat felt dry. He was afraid to raise his voice; afraid to hear it crack and strangled, god forbid, feminine_. Hold it together, man. You are a de Chagny. Hold it together, please, reveal and conceal. Reveal and conceal. Reveal and conceal_.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Right then." He faced her then, his face like plaster, set into a stiff smile. He prayed his face would not shatter. He met her eyes for a brief moment and began to walk. _One foot in front of the other, do not show emotion, do not show your anger._

"Sir?" Brigitte's forehead was knit in a caricature of concern. Brigitte always exaggerated. Raoul wanted to laugh, wanted to howl, burst forth with a damming cackle that would consume the room, overtake this simple girl and her cartoon face and his silly life. He didn't know what to do so he held up a hand, ducked his head and glided out, almost stumbling at the threshold.

Brigitte's mother had once called her "curiouser than a damned cat." When Brigitte had first discovered menstruation, she became obsessed with it. No one would speak about it; men blushed and stuttered if she asked and women simply told her she was a naughty child for asking, and go play with the others, you hear. She went through her mother's things until she found a stained pair of panties. She had read about the blood, but she had to be sure. A pair of dry bloody undergarments in hand, Brigitte raced to the living room where her mother and Francis, the neighbour, were having tea and demanded, "Is this where babies come from?" Her mother had been horrified and Brigitte had spent the rest of the day in her room with nary a bread crumb to keep her company. But she had been pleased; she knew what menstruation was.

Now, in the de Chagnys study, she had not shed that curiosity which had entrapped her before. She was in this room everyday. She knew immediately what was different, and that shape, a white folded letter, was different. Right away, she knew it was about Christine and her hands trembled. Nervousness was not something Brigitte was used to but she was nervous now.

She picked up the letter and read.

_Dear Raoul,_

_I have gone away. Do not seek me out. It is better that we part. You and I were childhood sweethearts and still are. _

_Please forgive me,_

_Christine_

It was short and bittersweet. Not at all Christine's style. The brief explanation, the second sentence that read like a threat, the singular mention of their past as kids – nothing of their marriage. It was simple, devoid of detail. Anyone could have written this.

Immediately, Brigitte was filled with dread. Anyone could, but she had an idea as to whom.


	19. The Hiding Places

The Hiding Places 

**To my readers: I have been neglectful! But please know that I have been working steadily on the story in my absence, working the story out so that I now know exactly where we are headed. I have a good three or four chapters finished so look for updates in the next few days. I will keep working and hope never to abandon everyone again – unless life interrupts again (boo!).**

**As always, tell me what you think so that I know if you're still along for the ride – or if you'd like us to head in a different direction.**

**EDIT I've changed Erik's abode in Bilbao to Madrid for the sake of the story. **

Erik would only leave his home under the cover of night. It had been years since the Opera Populaire had burned to the ground and Christine had gone. But he still crept within his new city as if nothing had changed. Things had, of course; whereas, before, he had only left his underground dwelling to fetch supplies or follow Christine home (to make sure she arrived safely, he told himself) – now was different. He went out to covet.

As with before, it was his custom to, when discovering a new place, to find the exits, hidden crannies and escape routes, places to spy. He still went out in his finery, dressed immaculately and always in dark colours with the exception of his gleaming white mask. He could have had one fashioned of black leather, not unlike the mask he had worn for Don Juan Triumphant. The thought of replicating that night, however, filled him with anger and an undercurrent of sadness. So he went out, bedecked in a conspicuous white mask, and walked the streets when the sun set. The beauty of Madrid was that it was a city made for night. Very often, it was status quo for restaurants to open late and stay open until the first rays of dawn fell upon the city. He frequented a few places: lively restaurants with musical acts; the Teatro Real; the library; and the Parque del Retiro.

The expanse of land with the false lakes of the park, Estanque del Retiro was often his favourite spot as he could watch lovers taking gondolas out into the waters, looking black and endless in the incandescent moonlight. There, he was able to watch, listen to the swish of the water and the echoing voices that bounced off the diamond sky, hum to himself, if he wanted. Shielded by the rowed trees that surrounded the Estanque, he was rarely disturbed, and only then by a squawking gull. When much of the park was deserted, he would sometimes climb the watchful equestrian statue of King Alfonso XII, able to overlook the vast beauty of everything that lie before him. But he was never alone. There was always someone to watch, and Erik was nothing if not observant.

He was never harmful. He gained an interest in the beautiful, often choosing young, long-haired brunettes. He was aware of his fixation with Christine, after all these years, but he did not see his exploits at night as resembling her. At least, not as much as he could deny, but there was no one around to question him. So he went on, tailing the young Spanish women at a distance, following them to their homes and watching them through windows. He just wanted to see them, watch them in a natural state, unaware of anyone's presence. That, he reasoned, was when they were their most beautiful. _Not unlike Christine who, on stage, became effervescent and fearless, as though no on was watching her at all._

He grew bored of the women quickly, however. He would follow one home, perhaps visit them the next night or two, but then he was alone once more until someone else struck his fancy. Despite the peace it gave him to watch these women and imagine what it would be like to be with one, he never gained any thrill from it. That is, it was not a sexual or violent urge. He simply watched them, stored them in his memory for a time when he could dream. Often, he gained inspiration and would pound away on his piano for hours, disregarding morning and the pleas from his servants to please eat something, senor.

He very rarely thought of the gypsy. The source of his torment and sexual humiliation was not something Erik was prepared to handle – or even understand. He felt it best to disregard the whole ordeal as nothing more than a foggy nightmare: disturbing, but its details were too vague to recall properly. He feared he could not keep it under control for long. So he played, irrationally long and arduously, obfuscating the details of his abuse into oblivion. Or so he hoped.

Something about the dark tonight was comforting, especially with the inevitable conversation that was to follow. _It is so quiet, he thought. Is she asleep? Should I be sleeping? Do we speak? Fuck._ In truth, Erik had no idea how to conduct himself. What he had known of sex before Christine had been rough, often drew blood and no words were ever spoken after. He had simply been alone. But having her in his arms stirred in him the memories of watching those girls, unbeknownst to his presence, and the gypsy. He imagined the gypsy fucking them, one at a time, their screams ringing in his ears as he watched and did not help.

"Erik?"

"Yes?" Relief that she had spoken first.

"I just wondered … if you were awake."

Silence.

Christine looked around the room in the absolute dark, saw the outlines of various furniture and furnishings. "This place is beautiful. How did you choose it?"

"It was … secluded. But still a part of the city." They both realized that Christine did not know where she was. Hurriedly, Erik continued, "Madrid has an economy that is swelling. It is a thriving metropolis, like Paris." He scoffed inwardly at that comment, as if he too was a part of that 'thriving metropolis.' "The culture is different. More carefree. Madrid is beautiful in the summer."

"Oh." Pause. "You – you saved money from the Opera Populaire?"

"Yes. In part." _Small talk, damn. Compose yourself._ But he could not, felt himself swelling, surging down into the undertow of shallow conversation. He was not ready to face the big questions.

Both lay in silence, doubly aware of the closeness of their bodies. Christine errantly slid her thigh across his leg; Erik's left arm twitched. As Christine lay in his bed, he felt the familiar twinge to get up, get out and creep. Somehow, with the curtains drawn and eclipsing the glow of the moon, he was disembodied. The pixelated dots crackled as the dying cells in his eyes worked to adjust to the sudden dark. He relished his relative blindness, his senses now accompanied only by sound and touch. His chest rose and he was keenly aware of Christine's small hand lying limply on his flesh. He felt so far away. But there was her breath on his neck and if he flexed his thigh he could feel it miles away from where he was. When he spoke, the rumble in his chest was foreign to him. His voice sounded different somehow, like it was arriving from someplace way below. If not for her body pressed intimately against him – her left leg hooked around his thigh, her arm slung across his chest, her head resting gently on his shoulder, breath tickling the crook of his neck – he would cease to exist. Simply voices in his head, breathing from some place far away, his body tired, relaxed, edging closer to death. He was far away; he could say anything. When the gypsy had been raping him, he had been far away then too – but not like this. He was right here with her, invested in what they had done with their bodies. He could say anything. So he did.

"Stay with me." He could not see her, could not judge what her reaction would be. The breath on his neck hitched a little, the pattern thrown off. He could feel the flutter of her eyelashes on his jaw. The woman beside him did not speak for a while.

Christine lay entangled with this man, a man she had bid adieu to a few days

before. It seemed so long ago now. They were different people then; they always were.

She could not deny what lie between them now – whatever it was. She had betrayed her husband in good conscience, not once, but twice. She had been his willing slave, found salvation in his cruel touch and pleading words. But when he crumbled – that's when she shone. She knew if she took him in her arms, whispered silly little words, that he would be alright. Christine had been strong all her life, with the exception of her marriage to Raoul. _Oh, how wonderful it had been to be taken care of._ So why was she here with a man that both terrified her and invoked such apathy?

"Stay with me." He said it again, and again the rhythmic breathing sputtered out.

"That … is a lot to ask." Hushed tones now; pillow talk had no place for vibrant conversation. Each word could be drawn out, slurred, or fade out into obscurity, the emphasis of each syllable impossible to miss in this silent dark.

"No. No, I ask very little." He felt her pull back and could no longer feel that warm breath on his neck. He held her a little tighter, faced her a little more.

"How can you say that?" In the dark, her eyes looked almost black.

"I don't know."

"Right, you don't know what you mean, so how can you ask anything of me?"

"I just know what is here, inside me. What I feel for you. I need you."

"I … But how do you know you need me?"

"Can you know something you've never felt?"

"No, no you can't." Pause. "But I suppose if it is a feeling that is foreign, you are aware that you are feeling it and therefore it must be real. But you must name it."

"I feel I have. I have never felt this thing that I have never felt. Needing someone. I've wanted, and taken but I've never …"

"Oh." Her simple exhalation cut short his train of thought. It was inexplicable, and suddenly she knew. Pictured him in the night of his labyrinthine dwelling, in the dark alone. Always alone.

"It is something we have in common," she said, far away now, eyes glazed over in thought.

"What is that?"

"Being alone. Having our needs become secondary. Then only _wants_ exist – I only wanted my father back, or to know my mother. I wanted things so passionately, selfishly."

"And now?"

"And now …" she trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. This was new territory for her, lying in the arms of a stranger she had known her whole life. But it wasn't strange; it felt almost natural.

"I know I like this. This _thing_ we have made; our pretend."

The head came closer, nestled in his shoulder and the comforting breathing returned. He listened.

"Do you ask forever?"

"Yes."

"Then I must think about it."

He said nothing, took her hand in his own. He picked it up, drawing her closer to his face as he studied their hands entwined. He marvelled at how small her hand was, but yet it fit into his perfectly. Gently, he pressed her fingers to his mouth and kissed her reverently. The breath was sucked in, and broke out in a quiet sob. He turned to her, saw the tears streaming silently down her face. Sure that he had offended her, he pulled away.

"I love you," he said to the pixelated dots dancing before his eyes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.

"Please." She grabbed for his hand and held it tight.

He took her tears for disgust, relinquished her hand. Turning away, he said, "You would rather be in Paris." _With Raoul_. "I know I am unworthy –"

Consumed in her guilt, Christine could not speak, only cry quietly into his shoulder. "No, no, no," she whispered over and over between sobs. _No to what, _she wondered. But suddenly she was angry. _How dare he make her feel bad about returning to her husband after taking her against her will!_

"I am his wife," she choked out. "I did not ask to leave him."

She expected anger. Tears, maybe. Erik slumped under her, grew quiet. Christine strained to hear even his breath and, irrationally, feared that perhaps she had hurt him so much that he had ceased breathing.

"What I mean," she sputtered, "Is that you took me – away. And I ... I didn't plan it. It is not that I do not want to see you. Erik, if you only knew … " Caught herself, regained her composure. "You must know that what you do – the things, the way you go about things – they are not right. Some part of you must acknowledge that."

He stared back at her, his face a mask as much as the porcelain that lay on the floor.

_You genuinely do not know? _ "You kidnapped me. Took me away! You drugged, me, Erik."

"I would _never_ hurt you."

_Yes, but you would hurt others_. Instead, she just murmured, "I know, I know." She stroked his face, the barren, mottled flesh. Felt him flinch ever so slightly, then relax into her touch. He made a sound like purring, ever so briefly, that brought a smile to her face. She caught herself melting away and was once again amazed by his power over her. His power of forgetfulness, of proper conduct.

"But you took me away."

"I know."

"Against my will."

"I know."

Suddenly, Erik _was_ filled with anger. He got up suddenly and walked to the window, staring out at the perfect night sky. Christine watched his naked form become tight with tension. She took in his hard, broad back and long legs, trim but not reedy, muscular but not buff. There was reason to stare. Christine blushed, despite her concern for his change of heart. She gathered the sheets around her, preparing to join him at the window but found herself immobile. She twitched slightly, her stomach coiling tightly and she found she was nervous, scared. Not for his reaction but because she feared she had offended him so, caused him to stop caring for her. _Stop loving her_ …

It seemed like hours passed before he finally spoke.

"What was it about Raoul, Christine?" He began, his tone low, brittle – it frightened her. "And excuse my blunt character – I have no talent for acting." The intent of his words was not lost on her.

He could not stop himself now. The demons within him had reared their ugly heads and he found himself slipping quickly into madness. _Abandon thought …_ it was much easier that way. He would hurt her, he knew, but he was past all that. This was what he knew. The words spilled forth like lava from a volcano, hot and acidic, likely to burn upon exposure.

"I will give you this and disregard the obvious – his stature, his money, his perfect face. Your Catholic prudence would not let appearance be the only judge of character – oh no, you would never shun the lepers.

"But what was it about him that made you turn away? You had everything any poor, mealy-mouthed wench scraping the ceiling of lower-class society could ever dream of." He continued in a slow, mocking sing-song. "Tell me, was it the tedious dinners with empty-headed nobility who gazed down their nose upon you just as they kissed your smooth hand? Was it the stares, the whisperings, the knowledge – theirs and yours – that you were just a Swedish rube, unspectacular if not for that small waist, that hair, that bountiful bosom?" His turned on her, eyes raked her without the prudence he spoke of. "And your voice – a shame. A bruise on the fair complexion of the de Chagny house. You could not even sing! What a goddamned _waste_.

"Did he not appreciate how you settled?" His eyes flared, his voice raised. "Yes, _settled_, Christine, you settled for a man who gave you everything you ever wanted. _But you wanted all the wrong things_.

"The chaste gatherings, the endless niceties and searingly boring politics, the congenial fucking …" He paused. "A slow-witted death. You welcomed it, no?"

Christine's eyes burned with unshed tears. Every word he spoke burned her, not because of his harsh tone or caustic manner. It was a truth she had long since hid. She had gotten good at it – the hiding – but he had refused to play with her. He had gone to seek her out. She took a deep breath, aware of the quiver in her chin and the shakiness of her hands.

Christine folding the sheet around her and rose with perceptible grace. She stood, eyes still glassy, as stone. "Very good, Monsieur. You are … perceptive. But tell me – why shouldn't I take what you have said and, in good conscience, walk out of that door?"

The change within Erik occurred almost instantly. He was suddenly acutely aware of his nudity. His face fell before he could hide it and he hoped she hadn't noticed, even with one side of him obscured in shadow. "Leave, then. But I doubt your guilt would carry your feet the distance it would take you to betray me. Or perhaps you have not changed at all."

She approached him, the silence between them widening like the wings of an eagle, a long-reaching shadow. "Ahh, but now you have betrayed yourself, Erik," she replied, carefully wiping the edges of her eyes for the tears that had collected there against her will. "I see through you this time."

Erik watched her, saw the pity immerse her eyes. Angrily, he stalked across the room, wanting to hurt her, wanting to choke the god-awful apathy from her very soul. "You think me a freak."

"No," she shook her head. "I think of you as someone to hold, to care for, to _parent_."

"Leave me then," he repeated, his head whirling. "My mother could do no better. Why should you break the tradition?" His face had twisted into an ugly smile, one that frightened Christine in its strange sincerity. She grasped his face then, forcing him to look at her, but he ripped her hands away and turned on his heel. Striding to the window, he braced himself against its ledge and stared sightlessly out. The moon was glowing beatifically.

"Why do you do this? Why do you continue to retreat from me?" Christine begged. When he did not answer, she spoke, the words tumbling forth, unbidden and graceless. "Purity. Uncomplicated, passionless purity. Do you understand? Do you know what that means? He was guidance, he was shelter, and _peace_."

"What was I?"

"You think yourself peaceful?"

"I think myself capable."

"But you were not."

"No. You needed that more – more than anything I could give?" He faced her again and she saw what had caused her pity before. His anger had shed, leaving him with the fog of vulnerability. _But now …_ This was not a man, _not_ a man. It was the way he had looked when she had left him in darkness, just the way she came: gazing at one another as if from chasms past, years asunder and adulthood a distant dream. She had to be the strong one.

"But what did you show me, Erik, but passion and rage and insanity – things I neither understand nor could brook the force of _at all_."

"Music," he tried, hopeful. Grimacing, he gained resolve and offered his hands as he said, "I gave you _music_."

"Maybe," she began softly, "Maybe you do not need to give me anything."

Erik furrowed his brow and dropped his hands. "What do you mean?"

She knew she wanted to touch him, but felt they were too far apart. She came close, was within a hairsbreadth of reaching out, feeling the warmth of his skin radiate against her own. But the gesture seemed meagre. Once she was close to him, she lost the brevity between thought and speech. It seemed eons before she could find the words, and her voice seemed only a lacklustre echo of what she truly meant. _Why can't you say it? _

Swallowing, she tried. "If I stay," she began slowly, "Would every day be like summertime?"

"I – I do not understand …?"

"We – you spent your life in night. And this –" she spread her arms, encircling the curtained room, "Is cheating yourself – and me. Can I give you summertime; a chance at something more?"

"Do you love me?"

"Do not ask me that."

"I must know."

"I want to – I want to try."

"At what?"

"Summertime."

"Hmmm." He gazed off. "Summertime. But what happens when it ends?"

"I leave," she said quietly.

"To him?"

She did not answer for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "I made a choice a long time ago. I made a promise not long after. I cannot disregard all."

"Yes." He held her gaze, determined resolve making his features hard. "But you are too young and foolish to know better."

Christine dropped her gaze quickly. _Was it true? _His words made her uncomfortable, as if she stood naked before a judge and jury. Before she could reply, he was kissing her, that look in his eyes again that she could not resist. She didn't even try.

They made love again once more. After, he faced her and their eyes met. Erik was now used to the dark and saw her perfectly. She pawed at him, clutching him closer to her until he understood she wanted him to hold her. So he did until her breathing slowed and that familiar breathing rhythm returned, soft patter on his flesh. It seemed the time ticked by slowly and sleep eluded him, taunting him. Gradually, she grew soft in his grip.

"Will you stay?" The look in his eyes swelled her heart. He was once again vulnerable and she felt the intrinsic need to care for him, make things better and lull him to sleep with a pretty song.

"If you need me, I cannot turn away."

She felt his chest begin to tremble and was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that he was crying. He sobbed soundlessly, and she met his eyes with her own, touched his face. Grasping the hand that held his mottled face, he choked out, "How can you stand it?"

Tears welled in her eyes and she recalled the chant of the mob. _"Down with this murderer, he must be found."_ Raoul's voice echoed in her head: _"Monster."_ The salt of his tears tasted wet and comforting to her lips as she kissed his face. _How could this man be a monster?_

"Shhhh," she cooed, alternating between stroking his face and kissing it, uncaring of the tears that glimmered on her own cheeks. "I'm here. I'm here."

It was not 'I love you,' but it was enough. He quieted and his crushing grip of her body loosened. If nothing else, she was a witness to his life and his torment. He began to say he was sorry for what he had said to her earlier, but she quieted him with another impossibly soft kiss. It was many hours before he finally surrendered to the dark and slept.


	20. The Source

The Source

The voices on the other side of the door invited Brigitte's curiosity. It was not unlike the help to listen in on the scandalous lives of their masters. But Brigitte had a vested interest in gossip now, as she busily wiped the table in front of her over and over again, shining what already shone.

She could only hear snippets at first, their voices low and refined. But as the conversation continued, that repose was lost.

"…_Should have listened to me … What do you know of the world? …Common, Raoul, common! It is of no surprise … left you without a word of notice."_

Raoul's replies were low, terse and emotional. She could barely make out his response, but heard one name: Giry. She moved close to the door, daring so much as to press her ear to the door. She could hear Raoul's voice.

"… Jean says she came to him hurried and flushed, looking a bit as though she had heard something terrible. He could only speculate, though, and Christine had been fine. It had all been fine –" He paused, emotion clogging his voice. "He drove her to her home with instructions to go back as soon as Christine was inside."

"Did she say why?"

"No, she would not answer Jean's inquiry."

A sigh. Then, "Where is this note? I wish to see it."

"It is not necessary."

Silence.

Then there were footsteps and the twisting of a knob and they were upon her.

Brigitte barely had time to return to the table. Acting surprised, Brigitte spun around quickly and dropped her rag.

"Oh, my! I did not know you were there!" She giggled nervously, but neither party noticed her failed attempt at nonchalance. She bowed deeply. Raoul gave her a tight nod and strode away with his father, both parties continuing to bicker in low voices. The Comte did not even spare her a glance.

Brigitte turned back to her work, the wheels turning. She still found it hard to believe that Christine would up and leave without a word to her or Raoul. That, coupled with the vague note and Erik's rendezvous with Christine in Bordeaux had led her to one conclusion: he had come back for her.

And now this new information: Christine had gone to Mme. Giry's, but for what? Had Mme. Giry sent for her, perhaps left a note?

_Notes. Christine's farewell note to Raoul. Mme. Giry and the Opera Populaire_. Suddenly, she recalled Christine's tale of the Phantom of the Opera. The Phantom had been fond of leaving notes then as well. Mme. Giry had often been his emissary and companion, Christine had said. Perhaps she still had the role, and had written that note. _But why?_

Brigitte turned the information over in her mind, trying to make sense of what few pieces to the puzzle she had, but nothing fit. She needed to know more. She would have to speak to Mme. Giry.

Hopelessness fell upon her again. But how was she, a servant girl, to weasel information out of a women twice her age and wisdom? From what Christine had told her, Mme. Giry was quite close-lipped and or stern personality. It would be harder getting information from her than it would squeezing blood from a stone, but she had to try.

Later that night, when dinner had been served and the crew began its nightly clean-up of the grounds, Brigitte begged off feigning sickness, and slipped off into the night. Using the dark to her advantage, she melted into the shadows and escaped the de Chagny estate undetected. She was beginning to feel like a phantom herself.

………………………

Morning had come and Erik and Christine had gone to breakfast in the dining hall. Before them lay and opulent spread, a feast greater than either could consume. Christine was dressed primly, Erik's clothes were perfect as usual but his tie was beginning to loosen. His hair was not as slick and his gaze had lost the iron that the servants were used to. Whispers in the hallway, gossip trading back and forth – Erik was aware of it all. He tightened his jaw; he would take care of them later.

They spoke very little, having reached a resolution the night before. Small talk was never Erik's strong suit. He saw futility and piety in it, an awkward thrust of conversation where there was a severe lack of interest or knowledge. Christine saw no need for it. Not after what they had done. Her cheeks coloured in remembrance of the night, vague flashes of writhing bodies, course hair scraping tender flesh, and lips and hands and groans. She could not meet his eye, the shame was so great.

"Ahem." Erik's voice was gruff. "After, I must show you the grounds. There is a wide expanse of land and forest. We shall take the horses."

"Alright," Christine replied. This was not a request, but a demand.

After the meal, Erik left abruptly, mumbling about changing into proper attire and that Christine should do the same. But Christine was drained, suddenly overwhelmed by her station. Here she was in Erik's home and they were to go riding horseback together. Like normal people. Like lovers. Like nothing was wrong in the world and it was where she belonged. It frightened her to think that, perhaps, it was. _She_, that is. _She_ belonged here. She sighed.

A woman entered the room dressed in a drab grey uniform. She began clearing the plates, stealing conspicuous glances at Christine erstwhile. Christine cleared her throat and searched for what little Spanish she knew.

"Ola. Como estay?"

"I speak English, Madame." Immediately, the maid ducked her head as if to raise her voice to the likes of Christine was a privilege and a fright. "Mi scusi, Madame …?"

"Christine. My name is Christine. And you are …?"

"Concettina." Silence descended on the pair and Christine rose, walked to the window and stared out into the vast garden. Settled on small talk.

"It is beautiful. The gardens, I mean."

"Yes." The woman had spoken to Concettina, perhaps wanted to engage in conversation. Concettina's curiosity got the best of her. The other servants, Milo, the chef, and Maria, the servant, had talked in secret about the strange woman their master had brought home one night. Senhor Villi Tempesta barely spoke to them and company was out of the question. Senor Tempesta was a solitary man.

"Excuse me, Senora – "

"Call me Christine." _Damned courtesies_, Christine thought. _I am sick of them_.

"Christine. I, uh – excuse my English, it is not so good."

"No, no. I understand you perfectly."

"Oh, good. Good. Do you live in Spain?"

"No. This is my first visit. I am from France. Paris, originally."

"Paris! Bellisimo! I have always wanted to visit. That is not always afforded to my kind." She ducked her head.

Christine offered a small smile. "Perhaps one day. It is beautiful."

Immediately, Concettina saw the forlorn expression, as though Christine was drifting off to sea before her eyes. Curious, Concettina wondered aloud, "How long do you stay, Senora?"

"I … I am not sure."

"Oh. I wonder – excuse me for my impertinence – but I – we all wondered about you. The master does not have many guests."

_Of course not_. The information both bothered Christine and relieved her. "Oh, well. We are old friends."

"Si, old friends. He is strange, no?"

"How do you mean?"

The girl motioned with her hand to indicate the right side of her face. "He is _unfortunate_. Different, Senora – sorry, Christine. He rarely speaks to us. He can be mean." Now that Christine had deigned to speak to her, Concettina could not seem to hold herself back from gushing. "But I suppose his –" she motioned again to his face, "He cannot help it."

Christine quirked an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

She stopped stacking dishes and drew a little closer to Christine. Conspiratally, she whispered, "His face. It is a mark of _el Diablo_."

"I'm sorry?"

"It is – how do you say?" She made little horns with his fingers. "The devil. Evil."

Christine stared at the Spanish woman. Concettina averted her eyes first, literally shrinking before her Christine. She turned away, began hurriedly stacking dishes onto the cart again, careful not to look Christine in the eye. She had offended the woman somehow. Perhaps she should not have spoken unless spoken to. _It was the way of the rich_, she though bitterly.

Up until that moment, she had not really considered the source of Erik's disfigurement. Vaguely, she remembered reading of cosmetic complications that affected the fetus before birth. It was uncommon for women of Concettina's station to receive an education, let alone read, but her ignorance burned Christine up inside.

The girl exited soon after but the pillar of thought stood erected. Why _had_ she gotten so angry with Concettina? She was just a maid, after all. Society had never given her more than a sponge in one hand and a slap on the other all her life. To be honest, the station of a poor, Spanish woman was not much better than a disfigured man like Erik. Or a singer, like herself.

Something about the _reality _of the situation struck her. Is this what Erik had encountered all his life? For years, she had only wondered of his solitude and sympathized with his utter aloneness. It was something she could relate to. But his face – it had meant so little to her. Erik, for all his shame over the right half of his face, did not seem to grasp the idea that perhaps women and men stared at him not for the half-moon of white shadowing his visage. He was a very handsome man; had grown into a very handsome man. _But as a child …_ In that moment she understood him without pity.

He came back shortly to collect her and lead her to stables. Erik made a mental note of Christine's stride, how she kept in step with him, leisurely and unhurried, as though her legs were as long as his. This struck him as funny: perhaps he adjusted himself to her gait? It was no matter, and he did not say anything, but filed it away to his memory palace. Christine, walking side by side with the Phantom as easily as she might accompany someone else, someone normal. This addition to his imagination was exquisite.

Throughout the ride, they maintained pleasant conversation. Christine learned of Erik's favourite places to reside. She learned that a giant oak on the northern-most corner of the paddock was the best place to curl up and read a book on hot days; the shade was just right, he explained, so as to provide cool air and good light which to read by. She pointed out the flowers she admired best: lilies, for their simplicity. They reflected on good times at the opera – Christine's, anyway. Both were in tears of laughter recollecting the time Erik had tampered with Carlotta's costume, leaving the behind of her skirts exposed and eliciting much laughter from the theatre set and Carlotta's wrath. Erik could imitate Carlotta's accent perfectly which sent Christine into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

All throughout the ride, Christine kept glancing at Erik curiously (which did not go unnoticed). Erik was careful to keep her and her horse on his unmasked side. He did not understand that her inquisitive looks were for an entirely different reason than his face.

They returned some hours later, the sun bidding adieu and leaving the sky a fetching kaleidoscope of oranges and pinks and reds. They took a moment, each revelling in wonder at the beauty of this landscape, secretly giving thanks for the opportunity.

Inside, dinner was followed by Christine's suggestion that they read for a while in the great sitting room.

She watched him carefully, languishing in a high-backed chair, as they read. After a few moments, he felt her eyes on him like one feels an itch under the skin – invisible, but there. He raised his eyes to her. She did not look away immediately. He cleared his throat and she dropped her eyes.

"What," he wondered, "are you thinking?" He was immediately filled with that old terror of being watched and pitied. He could feel her eyes peeling back his layers and finding disgust.

She sighed a little, looked away. "I am thinking – of nothing in particular. And many things."

The truth was, Christine was watching him – had been watching him all day – go about his everyday, normal activities with a feeling of wonder. Not just because, here was her Angel, flesh and blood, but he was in routine. Whether it was shaving his 12 o'clock shadow or spurring on his horse into a gallop, it was fascinating to her. But also, here was a man who had murdered, made love to her, wrote incredible, heart-breaking music, housed a mind of wit, expression and genius. His capacity for emotion was so varied and deep that she was frightened to know the dangerous parts of it, but nonetheless craved the passion of his turmoil.

_My hands_, he realized as her eyes zeroed in. She was looking at them because she wondered what it had been like for him to squeeze the life from Buquet and then, years later, touch her breast, run a thumb across her nipple in a way that aroused her as it did bring tears to her eyes for his gentleness. But Erik could not know that, only figured it was any unfortunate addition to his appearance.

It was hard for Christine to resolve the Phantom and the man as the same person. Erik: her guardian and teacher and capturer and lover. _Lover_, she thought, her cheeks becoming as coloured as her thoughts.

"Would you minding parting with your silence and speaking of your thoughts? I do not mind if you decline; one's thoughts are a private intimacy." Though he spoke eloquently, there was fear there: fear that she wouldn't want to part with herself and invite him in – in any way. He hid his hands at his sides, jamming them into the sides of the couch cushion. _There must be some reason she thought them ugly_, he reasoned, something he had overlooked. The book slid off his lap; neither noticed.

"I wonder," she began, looking far off, "I wonder – how you settled on Madrid." She abandoned the pressing matters and shot for comfortable territory, immediately feeling foolish as she saw the expectation drop from Erik's face.

Erik shrugged. "I had a contact here, one of the few people in this world I trust. He keeps my funds, manages the business matters of my music. He is my emissary to the outside world."

_So he hadn't tried independence. How sad_. She betrayed none of her empathy – it was not pity. She just wished he had the strength.

"What is his name?"

"I, uh – I'd rather …" he trailed off, fighting with himself over whether she could be trusted. One look in her hopeful brown eyes rid him of all that. "Dimitri Kvelsak."

Christine nodded, smiled broadly. "I wish to meet him some day."

"Perhaps," he began slowly, "Over dinner?"

"That would be wonderful."

"Good."

Erik realized he had been holding his breath and let it out in a quiet rush of air. The thought of eating in public filled him with a dread so intrinsic he felt he would never be rid of it. _But perhaps, with Christine, it would be better. Maybe _he_ would be better …_

Plans made, the conversation ended, neither party ready to talk about anything deeper. They had both dipped a toe into a very deep pool that both would enter in shallow steps. So he watched her, in quick, shallow glances that he stored in his mind palace like one collects nuggets of gold from a stream. He filed each memory away with precision and care, knowing that one day he might lose her, might let his selfishness slip away and let her choose what she really wanted. He was not prepared to reconcile that it would not be him.

He noticed little things in his search. Her hair, for one, was slightly auburn where the sun hit it. She bit her nails; he noticed that some nails were bitten to he quick. And when she was thinking, or immersed in a book, she sometimes chewed on the corner of her lip. Her lips were pink, full, but refined. She was incapable of smiling falsely – at least at him.

He was halfway immersed in Dickens when he felt her eyes on him again. He looked up.

The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to recover. "It must be so terrible to be so handsome on this side and yet be so –"

"Ugly?" Though Christine's voice was soft, he felt he was being harangued in some way. Then again, that is what he always felt when someone spoke of his face – which was as rare as the result was fatal.

Christine shook her head, mortified at her ineloquence, but she had to know. "Fated," she said softly. "I could never think you ugly."

Erik snorted, turned away.

"No," she replied fiercely, "You think I lie and I do not. Look into my eyes and tell me what untruths you see." She was right: her eyes were clear; they bore no secret. She approached him and he rose as was customary. Gently, she reached up and removed his mask, her fingers questioning. He tried his best not to cringe as she slowly drew the mask from his face and placed it on the nearby table. They both watched it, as if waiting for the answers to spring from its cold porcelain surface.

"Truthfully," he began, "You do not find me _unfortunate_ to look upon?" Thought, then her words came back at him and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "You said I was … handsome?"

She thought a moment as she touched his face, tracing the ridges and burns. She closed her eyes and said, "Let me tell you what I see. I see two eyes like oceans: impossibly clear and green with a hint of blue. I see truth in them. I see a beautiful face interrupted by an unfortunate deformity. But I see what it has done to you, not necessarily the 'it' which you think I do. You are pained by it. You've spent your entire life around it." She opened her eyes, her gaze playing on his face like fire.

"How did it happen?"

There it was. They both held their breath, waiting for Erik's reaction. Finally, he reached up, closed his hand over hers and pulled it away.

"It didn't. This is the way God intended me." His voice was hollow, bitter.

"Oh." For some reason, she thought of Concettina and immediately felt guilt. She had not defended him. The story was spilling from her lips.

He did not say anything as she told him of the brief encounter, only smiled briefly at the mention of "Diablo" – the devil.

"It follows me even here, does it?" he chuckled darkly.

"I must tell you – I didn't know what to think when she said it. And I must say that I never thought of such things, even when the others called you 'monster' or murderer." She stopped, both of them lost in the past.

Erik spoke first. "They are quite right, you know. I am a murderer. Even before Buquet, Piangi. There was this man, when I was a child …"

Christine bit her lip, the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. Would he really trust her with this intimate part of himself? But Erik turned his head, muttering, "It is a story unfit for a woman as innocent as you."

"I am not afraid."

He saw her standing there, her face resolute and the tears banished. She was trying so hard … it broke his heart.

So he told her. Told her of his faithless mother who had berated him and wailed over his appearance. A mother who forced him to wear a sack about his head, lest her friends should be shocked at his vicious face. He spoke of his entrapment – the first time – in the gypsy carnival. The man, whose name he had never learned, who had beat Erik and done terrible punishments to him for reasons he now knew were because of his face. Christine did not turn away when he told her of how he had wrapped the rope around the gypsy's neck and pulled until the veins popped out in his arms and sweat fell from his brow. He told her how he knew he was dead when the struggle ended and blood seeped out from his ears and urine appeared on the front of his pants. He could not stop himself from revealing the gory details in the face of her afflicted understanding, because he _knew_ she could not.

"Antoinette was watching and she helped me escape," he continued. "We ran, ran so bloody fast I felt my legs were going to fall off. And the atrophy – I had never had much room to walk about – made it twice as difficult. When she led me to the grate before the chapel, I thought, 'Well, she's abandoned you. This is as good as it gets for you.' But she returned and led me to the catacombs."

"Madame – Antoinette took you to the underground?"

"Yes. We were both so scared the police would find us." He shrugged. "We were young."

Christine's mind was racing with all this new information. She had tried her best to hide her revulsion when he described the gypsy's death. She saw the dead man she had killed when she tried to picture him in her mind. She looked down at her hands – she was as guilty at he was. _Was I a murderer too?_

"And the gypsy … what became of him?"

"Nothing of note." Erik's voice was all business, the vulnerability of his confession long gone. "A gypsy's life means as little to the police as it does to the bourgeoisie." He paused. "But for days, I would not eat I was so frightened of being found. Antoinette would bring me a basket with bread, fruit – I just could not. She might have thought I rejected her kindness, but she kept coming. She kept coming …"

He looked down at the floor.

"I am glad." Her voice was so low and pained that Erik snapped his head up to make sure this was the same woman. "I am glad she was there for you."

"Until the end."

Long moments passed, both of them thinking of the Opera and Erik's reign as the Phantom. Christine saw him, his hands thrust in his pockets, his unmasked face etched in reflection. He was no longer the Phantom. Even his secrets – some of them – could not be contained any longer.

"I wanted to tell you that – " Christine stopped, her cheeks coloring. "I hope you know, I see a _man_."

"Yes?" he asked, his face open, entirely more open than he wanted. If he was not a monster to her, perhaps she could love him as a man. He wanted to cry, to shout, to make love to her, tie her down and scream at her, if only he could get what he wanted: her love. But if he had learned anything – and God, he hoped that he did – he knew that he could not force her to love him.

It was right here – it was this moment. It was now or never. They both knew it.

"I see a man," she said slowly, suddenly finding her tongue thick and her throat closed, "I see a man whom I admire."

Right away she felt stupid and ashamed, like she had committed some great betrayal. In her heart of hearts, she knew she had. So embarrassed, she pulled away and, when he touched her arm, a gesture so gentle and questioning, she burst into tears. He pulled her to his chest, mindful to brush her hair away from her tear-streaked face, which only caused Christine to cry harder. Erik was confused, but he knew that she was crying and he was to comfort her. It was all he knew.

"I wish I could be who you wanted," he whispered into her hair, "All the time."

She was kissing him then, hungrily and with possession. It startled him to be taken so ardently but he kissed her back, searchingly at first, and then harder, crushing her lips with his own, tongues fighting for dominance. Then they were rushing to the bedroom, hands fumbling on door knobs, tripping over imaginary objects in their hurry. Inside, they fell to the floor, each making short work of the others' clothes. Erik moved to flip them over, but Christine stilled his hand with one of hers and took hold of his penis with the other. The action immediately caused Erik to catch his breath in a painful-sounding hiss.

"Does it hurt?"

Her face was open, truly questioning, and he almost laughed at her naiveté.

"Only so much that I wish you never to stop."

Encouraged, she slid her hand downward somewhat awkwardly, not used to touching such an organ. Before, hers and Erik's passion had been so furious, there had been no time for her to explore him. With Raoul – well, she simply had not seen it fit to stroke the penis of a Viscomte. It was unseemly …_ but, oh, it felt right._

She noted the thin, stretchy softness of his cock and how the shiny flesh seemed to lift and fall under her probing hands. She thumbed the head of his penis, catching a pearl of liquid that enticed her. Enthralled, she pumped his cock again, unconsciously spreading his pre-cum over his shaft, thumbing the head again as Erik squirmed beneath her. Before Erik could register what she was doing, she dipped her head and gently took him into her mouth. She tasted the underside with her tongue, making a few shallow bobs as she worked over the texture of his cock. It was rubbery and soft despite the obvious hardness of his erection. It was not unpleasant, she was surprised to note. _Rather like the skin on his neck_. She decided she wanted more of it. She moved her mouth down the shaft again and Erik's squirming ceased and she felt his thighs beneath her breasts stiffen. He let out a low moan as he came, spilling into her mouth.

She was shocked when he came, warm and sticky, into her mouth. More shocked was she that, this too, was not entirely unpleasant. He tasted like nothing she had ever tasted before: thick, viscous and lemony with a hint of something else she could not describe.

"I am ... embarrassed." He kept shaking his head as if he could not believe his actions. "I didn't – I shouldn't have …" He forced himself to meet her gaze, certain that she would be horrified. But there was that gentle smile. Unwavering. Genuine.

"Did I please you then?"

This time, he could not keep himself from laughing. "My dear, it is an uphill battle every day of my life to control myself around you. I – simply could not control my own body."

"Neither could I," she replied truthfully, moving forward to lie on her side in his arms. "I had never done that before."

"I had never felt it. Was it – pleasurable to you as well?"

She thought a moment. "I certainly enjoyed the sensation. I felt like I could contribute to your enjoyment selflessly, but at the same time, I _was_ selfish. I wanted to know what you would feel like inside my mouth."

At her words, he could feel himself begin to harden again. Bated, he breathed out, "How did it feel?"

"Soft. But hard and flexible. You tasted like nothing I've ever known." His hand wandered down the length of her body while the other reached around her back where she lay propped in his arms to cup her breast. Her breath caught.

"Can you describe it?" He dipped one hand into her soft folds, biting his lip at how wet she was.

"I – I can't. You were – you were –"

He was stroking inside her now, testing her breathing pattern and twitches and moans for what she liked best. His cock dug into her back but he ignored it, intent on bringing her to orgasm with his hands. He touched a hard, fleshy bit and immediately Christine stiffened. He worked at the small area and Christine moaned, a low, long languorous sound not unlike the purr of a cat.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, repeating the foolish question she had put forth earlier.

But she could not speak, the pressure inside her was coiling tighter and tighter. This, too, was unlike anything she had ever felt. She felt as if she could not take it and grabbed for his hand to stop him. But then the pressure alleviated and she felt a great wave of pleasure flow through her.

"Oh," she groaned. It was new and frightening and she choked out a few words, wanting him to stop but sure she would die if he did.

"You are," she whispered, his words coming back to her. "You are, you are, you are – " Over and over until it became like a mantra and he understood that she was answering him. _I wish I could be what you wanted all the time._

He pumped his fingers into her faster and the sensation became more intense. The waves built and built. She didn't know where she was going and it truly frightened her.

"I'm scared, I'm – oh!" Suddenly, the waves crescendoed and she was falling over the precipice. Her hips bucked and she twisted in his embrace, letting out a loud, embarrassing sound she had never made in her life as she came hard against his hand.

"Oh." It was all she could say, over and over, as her chest heaved and her walls fluttered around Erik's hand. When she had come, it had been like a vise, so tight was she around his fingers that Erik was certain he would never come loose. As she relaxed, the pressure loosened and he withdrew, amazed at the wet sheen coating his hand. He brought it to his lips, tasting one finger. Christine watched him through hooded eyes, mouth agape and lashes fluttering lazily. He met her eyes and hummed.

"You are sweet." Christine knew he was not complimenting her demeanour. She blushed.

She looked up at him beneath her lashes, like a veil. "I had never –" she paused, uncertain how to proceed. "I had never … so intensely. It was like … it was building inside of me and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless, but then it was so …" She trailed off, the implications of what she meant made words unnecessary.

They gazed at one another for a long moment.

"Did you mean it?"

Pause.

She grasped his hand and entwined their fingers, studying the way their hands fit intently. "Yes," she answered finally. She looked up at him, saw the open adoration and kissed him before she could speak. His erection was pressing into her hip. With one deft movement, she swung her leg over his hips. With one hand, she grasped his cock and slowly lowered herself onto him. Both let out the breath they had been holding when they joined. Christine began to move.

She rode him tentatively at first, allowing her body time enough to adjust to his length inside her. The familiar pressure of before was back, but it was different this time, somehow, as though she could reach her peak faster than before. She leaned back slightly, feeling the shift in her lower body and let out a small "Oh" of surprise. She grasped the back of his thighs and leaned back even further, the pleasant sensation suddenly becoming deeper and enveloping her from all sides. He was everything to her now; she was unable to escape him.

"More inside me … than anyone …" she breathed out unconsciously in between thrusts. Erik answered her by gripping her hips and encouraging her to go faster. Christine threw her head back, caught up in the moment. She was suddenly freed and in control: of her body, her pleasure and Erik. Every twist, every moan, every scrape of fingernails was her own doing. It was indescribable. She had never made love this way before.

Before she knew it, she was riding out those waves of pleasure until they became tidal, sweeping her up and under. She was breathless as they went spiralling in a frenzy of slapping flesh, meeting sweat and uncertain promises. _I am, I am, I am_, Erik thought endlessly, spinning forward as he came and biting his lip to keep from screaming his love for her. Christine jerked forward once more, the force of her climax rendered her speechless and still. Her mouth was open but she couldn't make a sound. And then she wasn't drowning anymore and her breathing came in sputtering gusts as her hips bucked desperately to chase after the fleeting release. Christine slumped over, thoroughly exhausted, murmuring silly things in Erik's ear. He was still inside her when she drifted off to sleep.

……………………………….

Brigitte stood outside the Giry household, Christine's note in one hand, the other clenched in an unsteady fist. She took a deep breath. Was this really the right thing to do? Perhaps Madame Giry had not an inkling about Christine and Erik's return. But … what if she did? She had to find out.

Brigitte knocked on the door.


	21. The Muse

The Muse

Light drifted into the bedroom, casting sun on a couple tangled in sheets.

Erik groaned and absently threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the harrowing light. A soft giggle greeted him and he was immediately reminded that Christine was in his bed and she was smiling.

"I was afraid of this," Erik mumbled.

"Afraid of what?"

"You are a morning person. It horrifies me."

Laughter bubbled from Christine's throat, surprising and warm. "_That_ horrifies you?"

"Yes. It is quite off-putting and unpleasant. It horrifies me."

Christine laughed again.

"Why do you find this so funny?" His brow was creased and he wore a scowl of sorts but that was how he usually looked so Christine dismissed it. _Erik being Erik_.

"I find the word 'horrifying' a little … extreme. And ironic. There are many more things you should be horrified of than my sunny disposition upon waking," she drawled, the corners of her mouth turned up in amusement.

"Interesting. Such as?"

"Well," Christine paused, biting her lip in thought. Surely, a Phantom was not scared of mice or rats or cobwebs or many of the terrible little creatures that had inhabited his abode. But she was. Grinning, she started, "When I was a child, I used to – no, it is too embarrassing. You'll laugh."

"Maybe. Is that so terrible?"

They stared at one another, goofy grins plastered across their faces. It was a dare.

Wordlessly, Christine got up on her knees and gathered the sheets in her hands. Erik was puzzled and amused, for Christine seemed not to worry for her nudity. He watched her breasts sway as she tied the ends of each sheet to the bedposts. She had a small beauty mark on the base of her spine and a scar on her right ankle. Otherwise, her skin was unmarred. He memorized her as if taking a photograph. She was so beautiful.

Tying the last knot, Christine explained, "When I was young, I used to be afraid of the dark, so I would make my bed into a fort of sorts with sheets and –"

"Canons?"

Christine giggled. "No, something much more impregnable than that. _Blankets_."

"Ah, blankets. They have protected me from certain death on more than one occasion. It's the softness that throws people off, I think. People always overlook the blanket because of its softness. They should know: never underestimate the blanket."

"And you say I'm sprightly in the morning," Christine grinned, amused. "Here you are, presenting witty conjecture and all I can offer is instruction on making a fort with blankets."

"And sheets. Don't forget the sheets."

Erik turned away, and scratched the ruined side of his face. He often found that it itched after a night sleeping on a pillow; something about the fabric made his eyes water and skin crawl.

As he rapidly blinked his drooped eye (it was often slow to react upon waking), he asked, "What were you trying to keep out?"

"Oh, the usual round of suspects. Vampires, spiders, demons, Napoleon …"

Erik burst out laughing, his afflicted face forgotten. "You were afraid of Napoleon?"

"Yes! Weren't you?" She looked as though, for all the world, this was a perfectly sensible thing to say. Erik supposed it was but Napoleon had never been on his shortlist of phobias.

"Living underground affords you the luxury of not mattering to society." Erik shrugged. "He was also very small."

"Exactly!"

"You feared him because he was small?" He had to hear this.

"Yes," Christine replied seriously. "He could have been anywhere. My closet, under the bed … Are you alright?"

Erik's face was contorted, his lips stretched and pressed together tightly, tears threatening to stream from his eyes. She grabbed for his shoulder, asking again if he was alright. The look of concern and seriousness of her tone was too much. He opened his mouth and sound came frothing out, loud and uproarious, clanging against the walls with all the intensity of a snare drum. Christine stared at him, almost horrified. Then the shock wore away and she realized, Erik is laughing. Booming, raucous, free laughter emanated from his throat like water bubbling from a brook. Erik was embarrassed but he could not stop, not with the sheer look of shock on Christine's face, nor their present surroundings. _We're under a blanket-fort, for god's sake!_

"I'm alright," he gasped, "It's really not that amusing, it's just … unexpected." He chuckled softly, gaining control of the sensation but still a smile lingered.

"Oh," Christine replied quietly, still a little flustered at his sudden laughter (and not a little proud that she was the cause of it). "Well," she began, crossing her arms across her naked chest, "You should think about it. He really was quite frightening."

"Ah, but you had your mighty sheets and faithful blankets," he replied, pulling her toward him. Christine settled into his arms. Erik vaguely wondered if Christine had had this conversation with Raoul. Did Raoul know of her Napoleon phobia and fabric forts? He prayed Raoul was none the wiser. Hugging her close to him, he prayed that this moment was just for them.

Christine grew increasingly uncomfortable. They had laughed, shared secrets and this? Felt good. Wonderful. Like home. And yet she could not tear herself away.

"I suppose it is silly," Christine murmured into his chest, fumbling to cover her inner struggle. "There are many other things to fear."

Pause. Hoping to turn the focus away from herself, lest she blurt out something truly regretful – _Love! Like love, you idiot!_ – she asked, "What did you fear as a child?"

"Also Napoleon."

"You jest," Christine slapped him lightly. "Do you not wish to tell me?"

"Forgive them father, they know not what they do – or ask."

"I figured you to be a – "

"Heathen?"

Christine frowned.

"The Good Book is just that. It is the shepherd's blind sheep who have twisted its meaning over time."

Erik sighed, rubbed his forehead. He hoped she did not sense his nervousness or his racing heart. He was afraid; it was an altogether new sensation. _No, not new. Just forgotten._ He knew not how to tell her this without offending her. What he feared now was the same as what he had as a child: inside. That someone would see behind – no, beyond the mask – was his only true horror. For Christine to know he was just as ugly and twisted on the inside as he was in appearance would shatter him. Confessions leech sin from the soul but Erik was not ready to yet be clean.

"Mirrors. I hated mirrors. My mother had all the mirrors in the house removed upon my birth. I did not truly see myself – aside from dirty bath water or my reflection in a spoon – until much later. The neighbourhood boys – they thought it would be amusing to …"

Christine bit her lip, trying hard not to cry. _Oh, how foolish – he had only just begun!_ But the cruelty Erik must have suffered in the hands of children who did not know better … She herself possessed traumatic childhood memories (mockeries, rumours, pranks) but she knew they could not compare.

"You don't have to tell me," Christine whispered softly.

"I know I don't. I think I want to. I have never … Secrets are like spoiled milk. They can only last so long before it begins to rot from the inside out."

A sharp rap on the door. Erik let out a great sigh. The servants knew not to ever bother him while he was in his room or composing unless it was important. Planting a chaste kiss on her forehead, he rolled out of bed, slipped on his robe and mask and stalked toward the door.

Maria's fearful face greeted him and he returned her insolence with a glare.

"I am so sorry, Master –" Erik's raised hand cut her off and she finished quickly, "Senor Kvelsak insists he see you."

Erik ran a hand through his hair, and furrowed his brows. He was not to meet Dimitri for another few hours, so why was he early? The light-hearted mood of before leaving him, he ground out, "Tell Senor Kvelsak to make himself at home in the sitting room. I will be down shortly."

Maria nodded quickly and practically took off in a run. Turning back to the bed, he almost laughed again at the sight of Christine huddled in her makeshift fort. He crawled underneath, careful not to disturb the sheets and settled himself over Christine, her legs accommodating his hips between her. He dropped his head into her neck.

"I wish I could stay here all day," he murmured into her hair.

"Me too. But you must …?"

"I am afraid I have to leave you for a short while. Dimitri – the friend I told you about earlier? He is here on business." He sounded as if this were the most unreasonable and unfortunate of events to befall him. "And he is a whole day early," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he rolled away.

"What ever shall I do without you, Erik?" Christine cried out mockingly, gripping his arm as he tried to retreat.

Erik sighed. "Absolutely horrifying." She giggled and he could not help but smile.

"I am not worried. Surely, nothing can get in this fortress."

"Erik," Christine spoke quietly, "I would like to get out – if you do not mind."

Erik's heart began racing. Fear crashed over him in an awesome wave and for a moment he worried that she wanted to leave him. _Now_. More so, he was afraid he would let her go.

Feigning nonchalance, faced her to ask, "Where would you like to go?"

"I would like to see the city. It sounds quite beautiful from the way you described it earlier."

So relieved she had not asked to leave _him_, he quickly said yes.

He leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him. Frowning, she wedged the mask off his face. "If I am to have one rule as the lady of this house, it is that you do not kiss me with that _thing_ on your face."

_That is the strangest request anyone has ever asked of me,_ Erik thought. Never did he entertain the thought that someone would actually _want_ to see his face. "If you wish it so," he said doubtfully.

"I _do,_" Christine replied sternly. Stroking his face, she added, "Especially in our fortress."

"Our?"

Christine shrugged. "I suppose I must grant you part ownership as the proprietor of these sheets."

"And this bed."

"Yes. It would be unseemly not to grant you some credit, despite the fortress being _my_ idea."

"May I be the muse?"

Christine frowned. "I thought I was the muse?"

"Always," he replied softly, stroking an errant curl away from her face.

Christine smiled, and for a fleeting moment, Erik swore she looked sad. But he dismissed this at the words, "You may kiss me now."

He obliged her, for what choice did he have? _To not kiss her is no choice at all, but mere torture. To kiss her is a gift I surely do not deserve._ But he kept his thoughts to himself, for it was better for everyone that way. He could speak and things would change and reality would crash upon him like a tidal wave upon the surf. He could awaken from this lovely dream – for that's what it was, wasn't it? Fleeting glimpses of serenity – Christine's pale leg slung over his thigh – laughter and light in a cocoon of their own making.


	22. The Search

The Search

Peering through the curtained window, Giry was surprised at the sight upon her door step. A bedraggled girl, her hair in a lazy chignon with loose curls sticking out here and there, stood behind the front door with a look of anxiety across her plain face. She recognized the girl as Brigitte, Christine's maid and apparent friend, a fact that often drew an unsolicited jealous ire. Christine had needed a close friend these last few months and Brigitte had been it. But what was this girl doing here at her door late in the hour and without a patron?

Twisting the knob, she opened the door and greeted Brigitte warmly.

"Brigitte! How unexpected."

"Mam'zelle Giry, I apologize for the late hour." She offered no other explanation, just shifted from foot to foot awkwardly.

"Please, call me Meg. Do come in. You can leave your shoes on the mat. Maman is particular about her floors. Here, let me take your coat."

"Thank you," Brigitte replied quickly. "Is your mother home?"

"No, she is at the opera house. Rehearsals run longer the closer it gets to opening night."

"_Hannibal_?"

"_The Magic Flute_."

"Ah."

The truth was, she was disappointed to find the younger Giry here. She had hoped to speak to Antoinette herself as she had been closer to the Phantom – Erik – than Meg had. But perhaps Christine had spoken to Meg? Brigitte was unsure of how to extract information from the girl (if there was anything to garner at all). As they walked to the parlour and Meg bustled about, preparing tea and instructing Brigitte how best to accommodate herself, Brigitte turned over all the information she had about Meg in her mind. She had met Meg a handful of times and they had got on well enough. There was not a lot to know, but Brigitte did recall that Meg had been somewhat sympathetic about Erik and Christine's relationship.

Meg carefully poured Brigitte a hot cup of tea and placed it at the small round table that stood in front of the parlour sofa where she sat. Curiosity was practically killing her but she managed to hold her tongue and go through the necessary social rigors.

"Sugar or milk?"

"No, thank you."

"Lemon?"

"You are too kind. This is sufficient."

"It is quite cold out."

"Yes, it is." Brigitte sipped her tea and silence fell upon the two. Meg had never had Christine's quiet patience and Brigitte seemed in no hurry to loosen her lips, so she got up and poured herself a tea and added a thimbleful of brandy. She turned to Brigitte and raised the decanter. Brigitte nodded.

"I like to indulge when Maman is away. Silly, I know, but it makes me feel …"

"Older?"

"Dangerous," Meg replied as she poured brandy into Brigitte's cup.

_Dangerous, like the Phantom,_ Brigitte wanted to ask but bit her tongue. Instead she spared a small giggle.

The fell into pleasant conversation, discussing the latest news from the Louis XIV Opera where Madama Giry was ballet mistress and Meg, a dancer. Meg entertained her guest with thoughtful anecdotes about Christine and Meg's time at the Opera Populaire. It was not long before both parties ran out of idle things to chat about and silence echoed.

Taking another sip of her tea, Meg asked, "Do you drink often?"

"Christ, no, I'm no lout," Brigitte replied thoughtlessly. Her cheeks coloured at her lack of repose but Meg giggled.

"Of course not. The drink is considered men's sport, but I find it quite relaxing. Warms my blood and enlivens the spirit."

"I agree. Christine and I used to partake in a glass of Scotch when family was away." Meg gasped at her admission and Brigitte smiled softly. Scotch was considered explicitly a men's drink, whereas gin was for the women. She shrugged. "It gave us a sense of adventure, what with the shackles of propriety at every turn."

"Christine did not like that much?" Truly, that Christine drank Scotch occasionally did not shock her so much as her ignorance of it did. She had missed Christine dearly since her marriage to Raoul, and these bits of information warmed her heart.

"No, it was not -- it was others, you know? They never let her forget that she was not one of them. All the better for her, but they made her believe she was not … They never let her forget."

"I miss her."

Brigitte looked up into Meg's red-rimmed eyes. She moved a little closer to the girl and motioned for her to sip her drink. Meg complied and took a deep breath.

"Excuse my ignorance, but it is late and … you have never visited _before_."

Brigitte had prepared her speech in her mind prior to coming to the Giry household but she found herself at a loss now. Standing up, she made her way to the serving cart and poured herself and Meg another cup of tea sparked with brandy.

"Well," she began, settling back into the couch, "I miss her too and I came because I wondered what you knew."

Puzzlement coloured Meg's pretty features. "Pardon?"

"Meg, may I ask you something in confidence?"

"Yes," Meg whispered, her eyes huge. She cleared her throat and repeated confidently, "Yes, you may."

"I had hoped to speak to your mother as she knew more about the situation than yourself but I wonder … did Christine speak of her happiness?"

"Her happiness? What do you mean?"

"Her marriage, her state of mind. Did she appear content to you?"

"Well …" Meg leaned back into the couch, the warmth of the brandy flowing freely though her veins now. "She never spoke outside of what was expected. I suppose her sense of propriety kept her from her truer admissions but …"

"But you knew she was unhappy?" Brigitte finished.

Meg nodded quietly.

"Did you ever ask her of the source of her despair?"

"She -- I would inquire in privacy but we never – she was never alone much. I know Christine. I have known her since she was a child and she keeps her suffering between herself and God. She figures problems are better sorted through in the privacy of ones thoughts and God's grace. But she never …"

Brigitte nodded, taking this all in. Christine had evidently not spoken to of her and Erik's affair in Bordeaux to Meg, therefore this made Brigitte's line of questioning all the more important. She did not know if she could trust Meg with the information of Erik's existence yet. She feared Meg would tell her mother who, in turn, would tell Raoul. Raoul's reaction would be swift and vengeful. Brigitte had considered that Erik himself was the source of Christine's misery but she had also considered that he was the key to her happiness as well. If Raoul were to muddle in affairs before things were resolved … _My God, I do not even know if Christine is with Erik_. The uncertainty with which she was to proceed overwhelmed Brigitte and she let out a great sigh. If she did not ask, she would never know.

"Do you love her?"

"Pardon? Of course!"

"Meg," she began slowly, "what did you know of Christine's relationship with the Phantom of the Opera?"

Startled at the course the conversation has shifted to, Meg sat back stunned.

"I'm sorry?"

"The Phantom. Christine said –"

"I heard you quite well, Brigitte." Pausing, Meg replied, "I knew as much as any Parisian did. He was a madman. His obsession with Christine brooked rapture and turned into something entirely more dangerous."

"Did Christine love him?"

"My goodness! Why would you ask such a thing?"

"You know nothing else about the Phantom beyond what the papers have written?"

Meg crossed her arms, slightly irritated. "No."

"But Madame Giry – your mother. She knew him quite well."

"What does this have to do with Christine?"

The two young women stared at one another, both unwilling to budge an inch. Brigitte was entirely sure that Meg was lying about what she knew about Erik and Meg was positive that Brigitte was not telling her everything.

"Please, I … I think it will help Christine."

"Help her how?" Meg sighed, exasperated. "She ran away. She was unhappy and she ran away. It was her choice."

"Do you really believe that, Meg?"

"I believe the word of Raoul de Chagny. Do you call him a liar?"

"I do not."

"Well?"

"You said earlier that when Christine was troubled, she believed in solving her turmoil herself."

Meg stared at Brigitte, realization slowly sinking in. It was true that Christine was not the type to run away, but the two women had drifted apart since her union to Raoul. Meg had seen her changed in a way. It had struck her as very odd that she had chosen to run away from Raoul, Paris, _everyone_, but not unlikely.

Meg closed her eyes and pinched her forehead. "You are saying that you believe Christine did not run away? That she," Meg broke off, laughing, "She was spirited away by the Opera Ghost himself?"

Meg's chuckles died off and silence descended on the pair. Brigitte's face was as resigned and as serious as it had ever been. Meg did not regard Brigitte as a very serious girl so her reaction sobered her.

"You must help me."

Bewildered and panicked, Meg grabbed a fistful of her skirts and began twisting them furiously. "You cannot be grave."

"I am as grave as Death himself."

Stunned, Meg chewed her lip. "On what basis does your logic lie?"

"I cannot tell you everything as it is right now. When will your mother be home?"

Meg glanced at the grandfather clock perched at the south wall and replied, "Soon."

"Then I must go."

"But you said you wanted to –"

"I did, but … something has occurred to me." Standing, Brigitte shook out her conservative skirts and passed a hand through her loose hair. Meg stood as was customary, staring at Brigitte with a look of utter confusion. _This girl was strange, no doubt, but this is preposterous!_

"You must do me a favour." At the doubtful expression on Meg's face, Brigitte added, "Please trust me. I was Christine's closest friend." Meg ducked her head, but Brigitte took her hands in hers and gave a warm squeeze. "You must trust me."

Something about the quiet desperation and hope in Brigitte's eyes gave Meg pause and she nodded unthinkingly.

"You know your mother better than I ever could and she knew Erik."

"Erik?"

"The Phantom."

_He had a name?_ "Erik," she repeated the name softly as the two walked to the hallway. Something in the recesses of her mind stirred but she could not place her finger on it. Meg absently handed Brigitte her coat.

"Yes, Erik," Brigitte repeated, shrugging on her coat. "I think she may some idea of his whereabouts, but do not ask directly."

Dazed, Meg replied, "Of course not."

"No, just simply …" Brigitte trailed off, the kinks in her reworked plan showing. "Do what you can. I fear that where Erik is, Christine must surely be."

Stepping out of the warm house into the chilly September air, Brigitte prepared to leave but Meg's voice called out.

"Do you think she is in danger?"

Brigitte stopped fiddling with her coat and sighed. _Did she?_ Christine's story of the Phantom's reign over the Opera Populaire had been harrowing at times but there was something in her eyes whenever she spoke of him. A kind of gentle glee, as if she were drifting away in the most pleasant of memories.

Sighing, Brigitte said, "No. But I do not think she left willingly either."

Meg stood in the doorway, watching as Brigitte disappeared into the dark. Meg stood there long after Brigitte's shadow melted into the moonlight and she was alone with nothing to accompany her but the night breeze and her thoughts.

………………….

The Comte de Chagny loved his son. Besides being bound by blood, Raoul was also heir to the de Chagny's fortune and the crown title once his older son, Philippe, stepped down or passed – whichever came first. His wife had died when Raoul was very young and Philippe was nearing eighteen. The Comte knew Raoul had shared with his wife the bond of shared loss and for that he had been sympathetic. But Raoul was a Chagny and Christine was a commoner. A butterfly was still a caterpillar for all its pretty adornment. Some things would never change.

Gaston placed the envelope filled with crisp bills and a few important dockets on the oak table and tapped the wood with finality. Christian, the man had alleged was his name, took the envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. The smarmy man's face lit up like a Christmas tree and he shook the Comte's hand. Gaston smirked disdainfully.

"It is done then. You know where to begin?"

"Yes sir. At the opera house."

"And whom will you be looking for?"

Christian stuttered, unable to recall the target's name, and the Comte glared at the insolent man. He hated having to resort to consorting with gypsy criminals (_was there any other kind?_) but it was necessary if his son was to be protected. Word had not yet leaked that Christine had abandoned Raoul. Gaston had cleverly put a stop to gossip before it began by explaining Christine's absence as mere sickness. She had been ordered, you see, to the country to recover from a small bout of pneumonia. Since Christine was not of noble blood and thus more likely to retain illness, no questions were asked. Staff were paid for their silence and peace had persisted. However, Christine could not be sick forever.

"Christophe – "

"Christian."

The Comte fixed the gypsy with a look so severe, the man appeared to shrink before his eyes.

"I have anticipated that you would lack the cerebral capacity to understand my simple instructions so I have enclosed all the information that you need in the envelope. Any more questions about what you are to do, you will find the answers inside. Under no circumstances are we to meet eyes again until the job is completed. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Report back with developments to a man at the Banc de Paris at the south corner of the Cirque. I will give you his name, but I dare you not to speak it unless at the bank itself."

"Yes sir."

"Now, you will go to the opera house and interrogate the woman and report what you have found to the banker in three days time."

Christian nodded his assent. Comte Gaston gathered his coat about his shoulders and turned to leave. The gypsy was thumbing through the envelope's contents, greedily soaking up the sight of the money when a thought occurred to him.

"The opera lady," he called out. "Madame Giry. How serious are we talking?"

The Comte considered this, weighing the consequences of either action. "Keep that one alive."

"Oh."

The Comte opened the door to leave but was stopped once again by the idiot's rough, uncultured voice.

"The banker's name? What is it?"

The Comte closed the door solidly and faced the gypsy once more.

"Dimitri Kvelsak."


End file.
